


We Happy Few

by CptEmie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Cinderella motif, Dancing, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Kissing, Letters, Other, Parents, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sebastian in a kilt!, Seduction, Unconventional Families, Unconventional courtship, a little bit of smut, snuggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 23,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabble birthed from the Create Your Own Companion challenge I've been working on. </p><p>Meet the OCs:<br/>Inquisition: Captain Emeline Cross of Highever joins the Inquisition to make a difference and do good all across Thedas, saving the world and falling in love with a smirking mercenary.<br/>DA2: Avery Shane has spent her adult life on the run, never settling anywhere and never looking back. Until a weird little group in Kirkwall gives her a reason to stay - and accidentally forces her to confront the past head on.<br/>DA:O: Liara Ashari is the half-elf daughter of a servant in Redcliffe Castle, rescued during the Wardens' efforts to investigate the castle. Alistair's childhood playmate attaches herself to the merry band in search of adventure and mayhem, and finds much more than she expected.</p><p> I'm arranging the chapters in chronological order by pairing, to keep everything straight. I hope that helps! NSFW chapters are marked.</p><p>Encouragement, questions, and prompts are all welcome! You can find me at http://wardenparker.tumblr.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Offer Me - Zevran/Liara

            “If I may be so bold, I would like to confirm a…suspicion.” Zevran stretched out on the ground next to her, hands clasped behind his head, eyes turned up to study her. She waved a hand in invitation, never taking her gaze off the skyline. “You are, I think,” he smiled a little, watching her watch the sea. “Feeling a little disappointed, yes?”

            “About what?” She asked, voice thick with mistrust.

            “The affections of your dear, old friend seem to be engaged elsewhere,” Zevran ran one finger playfully through the dirt at her feet. “This is a disappointment to you.”

            “He’s perfectly free to roll with whomever he likes,” Liara bit out, drawing her knees up under her chin. “It’s none of my never-mind.”

            “Ah, but I think you are feeling a little spurned, perhaps? A bit…lonely?” The finger that was trailing through the dirt was now making its way up her boot.

            “Zev, this is a really awful way to get me into your tent,” she pointed out. “Besides which, it’s nearly daybreak. Even if you _had_ come up with a decent pick-up line, we’ll be pulling up camp soon.”

            “So you admit that you are open to the idea?” He smirked at her, lips drawn into a satisfied, sultry smile. “That is good to know.”

            “I didn’t say that.” She bristled a little, getting up to douse the campfire with sand as the sun barely peaked over the horizon.

            “I can be very persuasive.” The assassin leaned up on his palms and slipped his toes forward just enough to trip her, sending her tumbling towards the ground at precisely the correct angle to have her plop down in his lap.

            She hated to admit how tempting it was. _He_ was. Because of how he was raised, she had to constantly remind herself. He’s been taught this his entire life. Taught to seduce, taught to read people and pinpoint their weaknesses to exploit them. But it almost didn’t matter, when he was just a few inches from her, half-lidded eyes smoldering at her like some kind of predatory animal.

            _No_ , she told herself sternly. _Don’t give in to the romanticism of the thing._ She wouldn’t be her mother. She wouldn’t have the taste of adventure only to have it snatched away again. But _Maker_ it was so tempting…But he would be there and then gone, and she would be left in a mess, just like her mother.

            She leaned over and let her lips hover next to his ear. “Offer me something more than a quick tumble, and we’ll talk,” she whispered, and carefully extracted herself from his arms.

            The others would be awake soon.


	2. Accidental Kiss - Zevran/Liara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomasyn is my canon Warden, featured in her own fic-let set, and also in my canon Trevelyan x Blackwall series. That, of course, makes Zevran x Liara canon in my writing.

            For all her prowess in picking locks and finding chinks in heavy armour, Liara Ashari was not always light on her feet. She had absolutely no aptitude for traps or lures – and the road outside of Honnleath seemed to be littered with them. Of course, the pack of darkspawn that had leapt out of the bushes down onto their shoulders didn’t help at all.

            This time, as she tried her best to side step claw traps while still running her daggers through the last few genlocks, she caught her heel in between the legs of an already fallen darkspawn and felt herself sway, squawking in dismay as she started to tumble backward. Alistair was just behind her, shoving her back onto her feet with the slightest push of his shield against her back.

            But that only pitched her forward, straight into the body on the other side of her. Her arms flailed, giving the impression of some kind of frantic bird as she fell forward. The hands that reached out to catch her were just a moment too late, crashing her set of polished leather armour into his with a resounding _uumph_. It didn’t stop, no, that would have been merciful. Instead, Liara found herself taking Zevran to the ground underneath her, the both of them trying and failing to catch themselves with splayed limbs.

            “Oh Maker…” she breathed, blushing a furious red. “I’m…I’m so, so sorry…Maker…I…I’m sorry…”

            Zevran, however, found the whole thing hilarious. He was laughing from deep down in his belly, letting his arms wrap around her and squeezing a little when the laughter wouldn’t stop.

            “ _Zev_ …” she whined, unable to allow herself to find the humour in the situation.

            “ _Liara_ ,” he retorted, her name rolling off his tongue with the distinct trill of his accent. “You are wound entirely too tight, my dear. You must learn to relax.”

            “Let me up,” she insisted, trying to get her balance on knees that were beginning to shake with the contagious laughter that she was determined to keep down. She shoved herself upward, but one foot slid in a patch of bloody dirt and she went careening down onto Zevran’s chest again, so taken off guard by the _third_ fall that she couldn’t stop her head from tipping forward just enough to press their lips firmly together before she jerked backward. _Void taken gravity…_

            “I…” But whatever the end of the sentence was, it was lost. She rolled off of him, completely ignoring the fact that she was clamouring to her feet like an embarrassed schoolgirl. _Why_ in Andraste’s holy name did that have to happen? Why did the world _insist_ on shoving them together at every opportunity? And _why_ was she constantly so tempted by him?

            The universe was entirely too glad to throw her into his arms at every Maker given opportunity, and it was starting to grate on her patience. Zevran had actually allowed her to set the pace of their friendship, letting her general lack of experience dictate how comfortable she was with moving forward, set by step.

            And she also wasn’t going to acknowledge the snickering laughter of the rest of their companions. She was likely as red as a tomato, and Zevran would be sitting up in the dirt with a sultry little grin on his face and arms crossed victoriously across his chest.

            “Anything wrong, Li?” Alistair poked her shoulder with one thick finger. “You look like you took quite the tumble there.”

            Leliana’s musical giggle sounded a few feet away, with Thomasyn practically snorting with laughter beside her.

            “Come on, Liara, admit it,” Thom was trying valiantly to catch her breath between laughs. “Clumsiness has its positive points.”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Liara huffed, tugging at her bracers to straighten them out. “Now, we were going to find a golem, yes?” With as much focus as she could muster, she started back down the road.

            “Hey, Li…” Alistair was very badly stifling a third bout of giggles. “That’s…uh…that’s the wrong way…”

            Another round of belly laughs shook through her friends, and suddenly the embarrassed red in her cheeks turned to pure anger. “Would all of you just sodding _stop it_?” She hissed, turning on her heel and heading up the road the other way.

            The group came to an abrupt hush (with the exception of Thomasyn’s last snort, which came a beat later) as Liara stalked away.

            Not more than a few yards down the road, Zevran jogged up next to her. “I do apologize,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, but low enough not to be overheard. “It was, of course, an accident. And I will understand perfectly if you’d prefer to forget the whole thing.”

            “I don’t think the rest of them will let that happen,” she grumbled.

            “Perhaps. But if you prefer it, I will continue on as though it had not happened.”

            “Zev,” she slowed, coming to stop so she could face him. “You know how I feel about…whatever this is,” she gestured at the air between them. “I appreciate that you’re willing to go as slowly as I need you to but…” she rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. “Apparently the universe is intent on pushing us.”

            “Not if you don’t want it to.” He assured her again.

            A tiny, sheepish grin worked it way across her lips. “I guess I was just hoping that our first kiss would be less…” _Maker, this is the stupidest I’ve ever felt._ “Less as a result of my clumsiness, and more of an intentional action.”

            “Ah,” he smiled – not a smirk or a half-lidded gaze – just an honest smile. “So it is embarrassment and a little disappointment? Well, let me see if I cannot fix that in the days to come.”

            “Zev, you don’t—”

            “No,” he held up a hand. “No, if you wish for romance, you shall have it.”

            With that, he started walking up the road again.


	3. How Long Have You Been Standing Out Here? - Zevran/Liara

            “How long have you been standing there?” The question was simple enough, but the implication was cloudy.

            How long had she been standing outside the inn with her face turned up towards the sheets of heavy rain, thick enough to block out the moon?

            Well, since before the rain started, if she was going to be honest with herself.

            “A while,” she answered, never looking away.

            “Come inside, my dear. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

            “I’m fine.” Liara kept her eyes upturned; only closing them against the rain ever so briefly.

            “Truly,” Zevran came up next to her, laying one hand gently on her back. “You will find a warm fire and warmer company inside.”

            “I’m fine, Zev.” She repeated, but they both knew it was a lie. No one could be fine after burying their family, not even the strongest of men.

            The sorting out of Redcliffe Castle had meant laying out bodies for identification. The Arl’s family had been able to name most of their servants, but Alistair had had to tear Liara away kicking and screaming when she’d discovered her mother amongst the dead. Torn to pieces by innumerable undead, the only clue to lead Liara to her mother was the golden ring she wore around her neck – a gift some eighteen years old, from the man who left her with child. The ring that now hung from her own neck.

            She felt his arm slide a little tighter around her waist, and his shoulder bump gently against hers. “For what it is worth, my dear, I am sorry.” It was no more than a whisper, but as his forehead lay down against her temple, she found herself breaking down in his arms.

            First it was a ragged breath, then the pinpricks of tears, and then she was clutching the neck of his jerkin and stifling sobs in his neck while he rubbed lazy circles across her rain-soaked back. He didn’t need to say anything, they both knew that. Nothing could be said that would help, and she would only shrink further into herself if he tried. So instead he said nothing, letting her tears mix with the rain as it beat down on them.

            They stayed silent for Maker only knows how long, until Liara had finally stopped crying and the rain started to fall harder again. Until Zevran was finally brave enough to suggest that they go inside again. Somewhere along the line she’d started clutching his shoulders, and he’d wound both of his arms tight around her back. “Come, amante, out of the rain. For me?”

            He thought he felt her smile against the skin of his exposed neck, and her fingers briefly curled a little tighter into his jacket. “For you,” she agreed, placing a light, lingering kiss on his cheek.


	4. Meet Me at Midnight. Alone. - Zevran/Liara

              _Meet me at midnight. Alone._ That was all the scrap of parchment said. The scrap now tucked into the leather cuff she always wore. The scrap that she’d found carefully weighted under a small rock in the middle of her bedroll when she went inside her tent to read after dinner was over.

            He didn’t need to sign it – his scrawling handwriting was a give away. Zevran. What in Andraste’s holy name was he playing at? Neither one of them had watch duty tonight, shouldn’t they be sleeping? Taking advantage of a full night’s rest? No, he wanted to play a game with her. What game, though? _Damn him_ , he knew a simple, vague request would peak her curiosity – that she’d be too keen to know what he was up to.

            So there she was, sitting on an enormous boulder at the edge of camp, just a few minutes before midnight. She’d had to bring her blanket out with her because the nights were getting colder, and she was seriously considering moving closer to the fire when Zevran appeared from nowhere (presumably from the depths of the woods behind her) and crawled up onto the rock next to her. She unfolded the blanket to its full length so it could be shared, presuming he would be us chilly as she was. He smiled at the gesture, but only reached up to take both of her hands neatly in his – he was as warm as a bonfire, and she almost cooed at how quickly her hands went from near frozen to hot.

            “Moonlight, solitude, a beautiful woman,” Zevran was looking up at the stars. “I admit. Even I could be seduced by a night like this.”

            _Really? This again?_ She withdrew her hands from his. “I’m not sleeping with you, Zev.” Liara started to slip down from her perch. How many Maker taken times did she have to repeat herself?

            “No, my dear, I did not think you would.” He smiled gently, holding out his hand to her to try to coax her back up. “I only meant to tell you about Antiva City. The lanterns burn all night long in some parts – mind you, by some parts I mean the less reputable areas. The areas populated by whores and assassins and drunks. And by that I mean, the areas where I lived for most of my life. But I digress. The lanterns burn all night, you see, and so I never used to see the stars at all unless I was travelling.” When she stood still on the ground in front of him instead of taking his hand, he just smiled and kept on with his story. “And even when I was travelling, I was supposed to be killing someone or seducing them in order to kill them, and it left little time for stargazing.”

            If she didn’t know better, she would have said he looked nostalgic.

“So you see, my dear, what I meant was that the stars in Ferelden hold me under a sort of captive magic, if you will. As though they had been sent here by some greater power, in order that for once, I might be the one seduced.”

            Charming. He was always so charming. Silver tongued, they called it. And by “they’, she meant the rest of their friends. With a heavily dramatic sigh, she took his outstretched hand and let him tug her back up onto the rock, and didn’t even bother to roll her eyes when he pulled her into the ‘v’ of space between his crooked legs. “You wanted me to meet you so that you could tell me about the stars?” She was very, _very_ bad at hiding the smile in her voice.

            “Yes and no,” he admitted, settling his hands on either side of her waist. He noted (after a pause) that she did not push them away, so he gently pulled her closer to his chest, letting her head roll back onto his shoulder. “This was merely an excuse for privacy, since I know such things are important to you.”

            “Hardly private,” she observed. “Sten is on watch.”

            “And do you think our dear qunari will care at all for our stargazing?” He chuckled. “Or is it his gossiping to our companions about it that concerns you?”

            “I only meant,” she grumbled, “that privacy is nearly an impossible thing. Aside from hiding away in one of our tents, which would only incite more teasing.”

            “And so, I thought a midnight meeting might be more to your taste.” He squeezed her sides a little, letting one arm slip across her belly to hold her tighter.

            The blue-black sky sprawled out above them, glimmering stars winking down at them in the moonlight. Truth be told, it was a gorgeous sight – the way the little sliver of moon so perfectly offset the flecks of starlight. She was caught up in mapping an elaborate constellation when she felt warm, soft lips meet the place where her neck and shoulders met.

            “ _Oh_ …” she managed to breathe, when Zevran placed another kiss a little higher up her neck.

            “A good ‘oh’, or a bad one?” He asked, lips grazing across her skin.

            Liara was absolutely, entirely, one hundred percent sure that her heart was going to beat out of her chest. She could hear it pounding – and was sure that he could, too. Maker take her, she actually felt her heart _flutter_ , and he hadn’t even kissed her properly.

            And there he was talking about how _he_ was the one seduced. _Well played_ , she thought, with an internal shake of her head.

            “Good,” she whispered finally, eyes falling shut against the pressure of his lips finding her pulse: carefully pressing chaste little kisses across it while she shuddered unabashedly in his arms. “Zev…?”

            “I will stop, if that is what you wish.” As good as his word, he sat up straight and shifted their positions slightly so they could look at each other.

            “No, um…” her laugh came out breathy, almost like a sigh, and she was grateful to be covered in the dark of night so he couldn’t see how furiously she was blushing. “I just…have to tell you something.”

            “Of course, amante,” he smiled sweetly. “You may tell me anything you like.”

            _Maker’s balls…here we go._ She took a long, steadying breath, shut her eyes tight, and mumbled: “I’veneverkissedanyonebefore.”

            “Ah,” he didn’t bother to repress the breathy little laugh that came up with the sound. “And you are afraid you might do something wrong? Or perhaps simply apprehensive about the whole thing?”

            “A bit.” Her eyes darted to his chin – ears – hairline – cheeks – anywhere but his eyes. “Yes…both of those…”

            “My dear, I promise you, you cannot possibly do anything wrong. Every new kiss with every new partner is like a dance. You must re-learn the steps each time, to find the rhythm properly. But, as for the apprehension, I understand that entirely.” His smile turned a little wolfish. “Luckily for you,” his voice dropped to a low whisper. “I happen to be an expert.”

            When he first pressed against her, his mouth was felt as soft and warm as it had been on her shoulder: a little insistent, a little coaxing, and a little alluring, all in equal measure. When he reached his hands up to cup her cheeks, her hands instinctively found his wrists to hold him there. When he tipped her head back so he could swipe the tip of his tongue across her lip, she sighed a little to let him in. And when he nipped gently at her bottom lip, she smiled and dove back into the kiss at full force.

            “You see?” He chuckled, trailing feather-light kisses down her jaw and pausing slightly to suckle at her earlobe. “You are a natural, my dear.”

            “I bet you say that to everyone,” she teased, trying not to gasp when he kept moving south, sliding his horrible _…magnificent_ …tongue across her collar bone.

            But that made him pause.

            “No,” he assured her, straightening up to look her in the eyes. “No, I tell you this because it is true. Do not think I have ever lied to you, or coddled you. In fact, I have nothing but the most genuine affection for you.”

            Keen to prove that she had only been teasing, Liara leaned forward and swept her lips over the base of Zevran’s neck, eliciting a small purr from the elf.

            “See?” He chuckled again. “A natural.”

            And though she caught flack from their friends the next morning when a small, not terribly subtle, bruise peaked out over the collar of her armour, she only blushed and shrugged her shoulders.

            She wasn’t ashamed of herself, or him, or the situation.

            Far from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of Antiva City never sleeping, and stars therefore holding a special place in Zevran's heart.


	5. I See Someone's Happy to See Me - Sebastian/Avery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sebastian/Avery timeline presupposes that Sebastian was sent to the Chantry at age 20 - or 10 years before the start of DA2's Act 1, but in no way is meant to undermine Sebastian's disreputable past. Avery is one of many women he knew then, but one of the only ones he actually cared about. This fic takes place during the beginning of Act 2.

            The Chantry was relatively quiet this time of day. Midafternoon on a Thursday was apparently not a popular time to pray. It was kind of Ismene to come with her. It was hard, telling someone about Ilea, but it was relieving to not carry the burden alone anymore. She hadn’t told anyone in years, and somehow Marian had felt like the right person to open up to.

            They made their way to the altar at Andraste’s feet and Avery knelt down to pray. She wasn’t particularly religious, but the quiet and the smell of incense brought her back to the little Chantry in Cumberland where she’d first gone when her parents had turned her out. The sisters there were kind (if judgemental) but the Revered Mother had not only summoned a midwife from Ilea’s birth, but had helped her find work once she was strong enough again. She’d stayed in that little corner of Cumberland for four years – but once Ilea was buried, no place felt like home anymore. Kirkwall was the first place she’d stayed for more than a year since.

            And then, the unexpected: from the upper circle she heard the familiar burr of a Starkhaven accent calling out to Hawke. Ismene signaled that she would be right back, and met the speaker at the bottom of the stairs nearby. “You can’t possibly be here to pray?” The voice asked.

            Avery’s head popped up almost instantly. A man with rusty brown hair and sky blue eyes was leaned in to Ismene Hawke, chatting casually, completely unaware of her as she knelt before the altar.

            Avery touched her forehead and heart quickly, murmuring a promise to the air (to Ilea) that she would return later.  She rose to her feet to slip away (making a mental note to apologize to Ismene later), but stopped in her tracks when Hawke called her name: “Avery! Come meet a friend.”

            A friend? Oh, wonderful. The Maker certainly has a sense of humour.

            Sebastian Vael stood frozen on the step, mouth hanging open and eyes blown wide. Avery tried for her most charming smile and strolled over. “I see someone’s happy to see me.” She took a last step to stand next to Hawke and suddenly felt very, very small between them. “How are you, Your Highness?” She dipped into a mock curtsy.

            “Avery?” He choked out her name like he was being strangled.

            “Oh, this should be good,” Hawke crossed her arms and looked between them intently.

            “I think I’ll be going.” Avery nodded at the other woman and smiled. “See you at the Hanged Man tonight?”

            “I’ll be late,” Ismene nodded a little. “But I’ll be there.”

            Sebastian just stood and stared.

 

            Avery held to her wine like it was a lifeline. Sebastian Vael was in Kirkwall. How long had he been here? How long had he known Hawke? Maker…she’d known Hawke three years and she’d never mentioned him at all. And what was that ridiculous armour he had been wearing? Bright white? How was that going to help him at all? Leave it to the boy prince to make such a ridiculous choice. She shouldn’t have said anything about their plans in front of him. It was a foolish mistake. What if he came with her? What if he came _with_ her? She’d better keep drinking. A _lot_.

            “You look more annoyed than usual,” Isabela plopped down next to her and gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “If you’ve got fifteen minutes and a ball of twine, I can fix that for you.” Isabela gave her a salacious wink and Avery seriously considered accepting. She could use the distraction. And she was about to say as much when the pirate perked up: “Choir Boy!” She was grinning. “What brings you down to our house of sin and deprivation?”

            “I…erm…was hoping…” It was him. That poncy git had shown up.

            “Looking for me?” Avery turned around just far enough to look up at him. Andraste’s grace…she’d truly forgotten how tall he was.

             “Erm, yes, actually,” he was shifting nervously, ridiculous white armour winking in the candlelight. “Could we maybe…speak privately?”

            Avery turned back to Isabela and tilted her head casually. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that offer,” she told her, and kissed her soundly on the mouth before shoving away from the table, wine in hand. “Lead the way, Your Highness.”

            With an annoyed roll of his eyes, Sebastian gestured for her to follow him to a corner table: just two chairs, table barely big enough for two pints to rest on. It absolutely forbade anyone from joining them. He waited until she sat before he joined her, and he was silent a good long while afterwards.

            “Look,” she finally broke the horrible quiet between them. “You really don’t have to say anything. It’s been a long time. A very long time. Maker knows we’ve both probably changed a lot since the last time we sat alone in a tavern.”

            “What are you doing here?” He finally asked, voice raspy and unsure.

            “I live here.” It was a simple, honest answer.

            “How long?”

            “About three years now.”

            “Maker…” he shook his head in wonder. “How have I not seen you?”

            “No idea.” She was clinging to her cup, trying desperately to sound casual.

            He was wringing his hands, face drawn but eyebrows raised in a constant look of surprise. “I don’t even…” he shrugged helplessly. “How are you?”

            “You don’t have to do this,” she set her empty cup on the table between them and instantly regretted drinking it too fast. “You don’t have to be polite and pretend to be interested. It’s been a long time.”

            “I know.” He looked at her – through her – with those Void taken eyes that made her stomach flip and her head swim. “I… well, honestly? I’ve missed you.”

            “I’m sorry. I heard you wrong. I could have sworn you just said—”

            “I said I’ve missed you.” He looked so sad that she knew he meant it. But Maker take her if she was going to let him off the hook. “Well, that’s sweet of you,” Avery forced herself to stand. “May I go now, Your Highness?”

            “Stop that,” he pleaded. “I hate it when you call me that.” Andraste preserve him, he ached with missing her. Every bit of him sang with the need to touch her – hold her in his arms again – to kiss her again. To make up for more than ten years of lost time with her. It took everything he had not to reach for her. He’d spent years of his life praying for forgiveness for whatever he’d done to make her leave. And here she was – so many years later – still impossibly beautiful and impossibly angry with him.

            “I don’t know what you want me to say, Bastian.” His old nickname, so automatic from her tongue, made her skin shiver when she said it. “Yes, it’s been a long time, and it’s sweet of you to say you’ve missed me. I could say the same thing,” she pointed out. “But frankly, I’m not going to.” Maker take her, she was walking away from this table if it was the last thing she ever did.

            But his reflexes were just as quick as they’d always been, and his hand was on her shoulder before she’d taken a second step. She suddenly regretted wearing nothing but a slip of linen under her cincher, shoulder band pulled tight under the warmth of his large, long hands. “You left.” His voice was quiet as a whisper – not a question, not an accusation. Just a statement hanging in the air.

            “Me?” She wheeled around, pulled free of his hand, and felt a flame rise up from her shoulders all the way to the tips of her ears. “Me?” She asked again, voice rising. “Why in Andraste’s name would _I_ have left?”

            “I don’t know,” he murmured, letting his arm drop. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

            “You’re the one who ran off to the blighted Chantry,” she was practically spitting. “Leaving me to deal with –” She growled back the words. He didn’t know. He didn’t need to know. It was far too late for him to do anything about it.

            “Deal with…?” He prompted.

            “To deal with disappointed parents and a broken heart,” she flinched when his face fell, but stood her ground. “And don’t look at me like that, you know bloody well how I felt about you.” She pulled at her cincher, determined to _look_ put together even as she felt herself unraveling. She forced herself to focus on the differences: his hair was neatly brushed back instead of tousled around his face, his hands were softer (presumably from fewer bar fights), his lips seemed perpetually pursed, no trace of that rakish smile that used to make her knees weak. She had to remind herself that he was a different man now.

            “Did they tell you that?” He pressed in a little closer to her. “Did they tell you I’d gone off of my own accord?”

            “Bastian, you wrote me a blighted _letter_ , remember?” She flushed hotter, anger on top of frustration.

            “No,” he shook his head and a little bit of hair fell free. “No, I never did.”

            “You did, and I cried myself to sleep for six months.” She probably shouldn’t have admitted it, but there it was.

            “Maker’s mercy…” his fists were balled so tight that his knuckles paled white. “I swear to you, I never wrote you. My mam told me you’d run off to Antiva with some sailor.”

            “Why would I—” she groaned, a deep growl from the back of her throat. “I’ll bet every sovereign in the Viscount’s coffers that your mother wrote that letter.” She sank back down in her chair. “My da turned me out, a week after the messenger came Like he was ashamed of me for…” she swallowed. “…for not becoming _princess_ …” Yes, let him believe that. Let him believe it was that, and not because her belly had started to grow.

            “Maker…” he breathed again, falling backward until his back hit the post behind him. In this instant, he felt the true weight of his vows for the first time in years. He had promised himself to the Maker, all those years ago when he thought he’d lost her. He’d forsaken temptations and flesh, sworn to restrain himself from lustful thoughts and impure actions. He’d promised to be honourable – a gentleman. But what it meant – what it meant to him right now – was that he couldn’t comfort her the way he truly wanted to. He couldn’t sweep her up in his arms and kiss her a thousand times over in apology. He couldn’t hold her against him and let the animosity melt away. Because the flesh had a memory of its own, and she was – had always been – his every temptation come to life. Andraste’s grace, he needed to pray. He needed to pray a _lot_.

            “Right,” Avery stood again. “I’m going to get sloshed. Very, very sloshed.” She was in a daze. His mother had been the instrument that pried them apart. Her father had separated them further. Their parents – who were supposed to love and support them – had squashed their happiness like a summer fly. And they, young and stupid, had taken the bait: hook, line, and sinker.

            “Avery,” his words escaped him. The very idea of having to watch her walk out the door – and possibly never seeing her again – it made his heart twist into a painful knot. “Maker, Avery, please…”

            “Good night, Bastian.” She managed to make her legs work – one foot in front of the other. When she reached the long table where the others were situated, she leaned down and kissed the top of Isabela’s head, then headed out the door. She was a lovely distraction, but tonight didn’t seem like a good night for that.


	6. She Needed to Get a Fucking Grip - Sebastian/Avery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Avery belong to the same canon as Liara and Thomasyn - my primary canon for all things Thedas :)

            Maker, what was she doing? The Chantry was no place for her right now. The Grand Cleric had made it perfectly clear that she did not approve of her influence over Sebastian, and that Avery was to give the boy prince a wide birth. And yet here she was, snuck into Sebastian’s sparse little chamber, waiting for him to come back from evening prayer. They’d fought again the last time she’d seen him, and she needed him to understand that she was trying to put it behind her. She had no right to be mad at him for not being there for Ilea, as he’d had no idea he’d even fathered a child. So here she was, sitting and waiting. Waiting to explain to him that she had been a right idiot, and to ask him to forgive her.

            But was it even worth it? Would he even forgive her for this? Forgive her at all? She had, after all, made no attempt to tell him about Ilea. She’d kept her secret, believing Sebastian wanted nothing to do with her, instead of trying to get word to him that he had a daughter. It wasn’t unreasonable for him to choose not to forgive her at all, considering what she had kept from him.

            The little wooden door creaked open, and Avery instinctively reached for a dagger, just in case. But it was only Sebastian, meticulously on time after evening vespers. “Maker!” He gasped, spotting her in the corner and slamming his chamber door shut behind him. “Avery, you can’t be here!”

            “I won’t stay long,” she promised, taking a step forward as he lit a candle against the sunset. “I just had to see you.”

            “I don’t know what else you have to say to me, after our last…conversation.” He was bristly, but he had every right to be.

            “Frankly? I came to apologize.” She took another, tentative, step forward. “I had no right to be angry with you over something you couldn’t have done anything about.”

            “I…” Sebastian crooked his head to the side. “That’s certainly not what I expected you to say,” he admitted.

            A grumpy sigh broke through her pursed lips. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. A child is an enormous secret to keep, and I should have tried to tell you. So, I’m sorry. And I expect that I should leave you alone now.”

            With that, she hoisted herself out of the open window to crawl across the roof of the Chantry and down to the alleys that would eventually lead to Lowtown.

            Maker, but she was an idiot. What had possibly possessed her to think she could just show up in his chambers and that would fix everything? She’d probably only made it worse. Dropping in, tossing her apology on the floor at his feet, and slipping out again before he’d had a chance to reply. She shook off the nagging in the back of her head that told her to go back, to have an actual conversation with him. That wouldn’t help. She shouldn’t have gone at all, and she knew it.

            The drop down into the alley behind the Chantry was a steep one, and Avery focused her attention onto the foot holds provided by the stonework decorating the sides of the elaborate building. A few more yards and she’d be down on the ground, dashing off towards the dirt and dark of her little house, or maybe the dim comfort of the Hanged Man. Either way, there would be wine. Plenty of it.

            She dropped down carefully, landing catlike on the cobblestone and springing up again to head down to the next landing – and the second she hit the corner of the Chantry, she ran bang into a six foot tall wall. “Thought you could run away?” Asked the silky smooth burr of the man she’d just run into.

            “Bastian!” she yelped, jumping back a little in surprise. “What are you doing?”

            “You came to me to ask my forgiveness and then left before I could give it,” he pointed out. “Luckily or unluckily, I use the same method of escape when I need to get out of my chamber undetected. So I knew how to catch you.”

            “Still have your leathers, I see,” she looked him up and down – he still had the same ragged set of black clothes he used to wear when he’d sneak out of the castle to see her when they were teenagers.

            “They come in handy from time to time.” He shrugged a little and took a step toward her. “I just came down here to say: I forgive you for being scared. You did a horribly difficult thing all by yourself, and I regret I wasn’t there to help you. But if forgiveness is what you seek, I give it freely.”

            “I – really?” She was no more than a foot away from him now, right at the point where she had to crane her neck to see up into his face.

            “Really.”

            “Well…alright then.” What else was there to say? Or to do? Her entire body was screaming for her to fall into his arms – to just give in and hold him and let the guilt fall off of her like leaves off a tree. But he was a Chantry brother, and she respected him enough (despite her jokes and teasing) to refrain from putting him in a compromising position.

            So it was even more surprising when he closed the space between them and laced his fingers through hers, giving her hand a long, gentle squeeze. Along with him came the smell of Chantry incense and wood polish, and the smell that reminded her of nighttime – which she knew now was just his natural scent. For years she had thought it was because they spent so many nights together, but it was obvious now that it was just _him._

            She prayed he hadn’t heard her breath hitch. Void take her, she _needed_ to kiss him. Needed to be close to him again. She needed him like water in her lungs. She needed him like blood in her veins.

            She needed to get a fucking _grip_.

            “Ave?” He was looking down at her with concern. He had been saying something and she hadn’t even been listening – too wrapped up in the nearness of him to process anything else.

            “Sorry, I…” _I was too busy not letting myself admit that I’m probably still in love with you. You poncy git. You absolutely infuriating prig…_

            “Oh…” Sebastian backed away immediately. “I – oh…”

            “Andraste’s tits,” she threw her hands over her mouth. “I did _not_ mean to say that out loud…”

            “Clearly,” he nodded, but was entirely unable to hide the amusement in his voice. “But it’s good to know your opinion of me hasn’t changed.”

            “It might,” she was bright red from her head down to her toes. “If you stopped being such a git…”

            “You always had such a way with words,” he teased. He didn’t realize he’d stepped forward again.

            “Sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t get the fancy schooling and private tutors like you did.” She stepped in as well. Boldness met by boldness.

            “So,” he smirked, and that satisfied, rakish smile suddenly made him look ten years younger. “You’re still in love with me, then?”

            “Oh, come off it.” She was trying to be flippant, but he was perilously close to her. What in the Void was he doing? Wasn’t he a pure, virtuous man of the Maker now? Why was he looking at her like that? Like he was about to _devour_ her. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her like that…and it wasn’t until right now that she remembered how it made her shiver with anticipation.

            He let his hands drop to her waist (making her breath hitch audibly, there was no way he missed it this time) and slid them around to her back with practiced ease. He may have been a Chantry brother for more than a decade, but he hadn’t lost his inherent ability to seduce.

            “Bastian…” she tried to summon a warning tone into her voice. “Bastian. _Vows_ , remember? You took vows…”

            His head dropped. She was right. She was always right. How easily he had let himself slip back into the world of temptation. A little moonlight and a few shadows thrown across her perfect face, and he’d immediately reverted to the man he used to be. The sinner he was still trying so desperately to leave behind.

            “I’d better go.” He murmured, and disappeared around the corner of the Chantry.

            Avery needed a drink. More accurately, a whole bottle of something. _Right now._


	7. In Front of Everyone - Sebastian/Avery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of self-indulgent late night writing, but totally canon for these two beautiful cinnamon rolls.  
> Ismene Hawke's canon now include's LasairTrevelyan's OC, Idrilla, as Avery's best friend and partner in shenaniganry. Welcome to the family, kid!

            If there was one thing Hawke couldn’t be counted on for, it was spoiling her friends. The afternoon before the evening of Sebastian’s ball (or rather, the Viscount’s ball recognizing Sebastian’s sovereignty as the rightful Prince of Starkhaven), her estate in Hightown was packed full of gowns, shoes, make up, and the women who would be wearing them.

            Merrill was the first dressed, lying across Hawke’s bed with one of Varric’s books in her lap. Isabela had talked her into leaving her hair completely down for the night, brushing it out until it shone in the firelight – a brilliant compliment to the deep green of the little elf’s dress. Hawke and Isabela were lacing each other into corseted gowns – Kirkwall crimson for Hawke and a deep blue and gold for Isabela. At least Isabela had consented to wear something a little more modest than usual – Avery had begged and begged, finally consenting to putting the pirate on her tab at the Hanged Man for the week to come so that she would put on something vaguely ladylike. The gossamer blue was cinched in carefully, covering her breasts but not hiding them, and flaring at her hips to accentuate her figure. Hawke, Maker bless her, had found a modest gown of red silk that swept high across her collar bone and extended into belled sleeves, fluttering out along her legs to sway elegantly when she walked or danced. A gown fit for a queen, and Hawke looked the part in it. Idrilla – a wonderful help though she had been, up until this point – was now shrugging into a blue gown so deep and rich it looked black, and carefully aligning the edges of the lacy front so that the delicate ‘v’ of the neckline was properly set. A necklace which reached _all the way_ to her navel. They had argued over it for countless hours over the last few weeks, but Rilla wouldn’t budge. If she was going to set foot into some fancy pants ball, she was wearing what she wanted, end of story.

            Avery herself was sprawled out at Merrill’s feet, letting her legs hang off the end of Hawke’s bed with her arms flung over her head like a petulant child.

            “Get up,” Isabela kicked her unceremoniously. “You’re the one who talked us into going to this sodding thing in the first place.”

            Avery groaned a little, lifting herself up onto her elbows. “Hawke, can I stay home? The nobles scare me…” She pouted desperately, fluttering her eyelashes for effect.

            “Get up.” Hawke repeated. “Time to get you dressed.” She was tying Isabela’s corset into place, leaving the pirate to attend to her hair and make up in the giant mirror that Orana had propped up in the corner of the room.

            “I’m sure everyone will be nice to you,” Merrill chirped. “Sebastian loves you very much, so I can’t imagine anyone being mean to you.”

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Avery smiled at her fondly. “The nobles don’t care one bit for me. I’m common, and poor, and they’re going to do everything they can to point that out.” She intentionally ignored Merrill’s assertion that Sebastian loved her. They hadn’t discussed his feelings for her, and she couldn’t afford to let her imagination muck up this night. Tonight was for Sebastian. For Starkhaven. For their home.

            “Is that why this bloody belt buckle looks like the Starkhaven crest?” Idrilla was unwrapping Avery’s gown from its bag in Hawke’s closet. “Is he marking you as his territory already, sweetie?”

            “There are exactly two people in all of Kirkwall who were born in the city of Starkhaven,” Avery snapped, jumping off of the mattress. “And that belt buckle is a show of solidarity. If I don’t support Sebastian’s claim to the throne, what kind of message does that send to the rest of Kirkwall?”

            “Whoa, tiger,” Hawke was grinning as Idrilla pulled the dress out of the wardrobe. “No one’s questioning your loyalty.”

            “Just Sebastian’s fashion sense.” Isabela looked at the gem-studded clasp of the dress’s belt.

            “Yes, it’s the Starkhaven crest.” Avery shucked her tunic and took a deep, stuttering breath. “Now, someone tie me into this bloody corset before I change my mind and run back to Lowtown.”

            It was simple to lace Avery’s lithe figure into the dragon bone contraption, once her silk stockings were in place. Another rasping breath had her stepping into the cream coloured lace-on-silk gown that Sebastian had specifically hired a seamstress to design and create for her. He had insisted on it, no matter how long she protested. He said it was only right for her to have something special, as Kirkwall’s second representative of Starkhaven. He claimed it was their duty to properly represent their home.

            Hawke and Idrilla said it was so he could show her off.

            Avery had to admit: the gown was gorgeous. They could tease all they liked, but the lace was hand sewn, the silk was imported from Orlais, and the embellishments had been painstakingly attended to by the best seamstress in Kirkwall. The neckline pulled a straight line just under her collar bone, extending into sleeves that wrapped around her upper arms just as snuggly as the rest of the gown held to her torso. It flared from belt downward – and yes, the clasp of the belt might be slightly overdoing it, but Sebastian was so proud of the touch of colour and the very idea of it that she hadn’t been able to refuse. The little golden slippers he’d picked out gave her no added height, but Avery secretly loved the image of the boy prince towering over all those assembled.

            While Hawke swore at the buttons that went up the entire back of the dress, Idrilla set her hair and swiped a bright red stain across her lips. And Merrill, bless her, was eagerly holding out a pair of cream coloured evening gloves while she cooed over the whole thing.

            “If you don’t think Sebastian’s showing you off to the nobles, you’re daft,” Hawke whispered in her ear. “You look like a queen.”

            “Princess,” Idrilla corrected, pining a small jeweled clasp in the shape of a sea bird into her hair.

            “Nobody’s a princess,” Avery protested, tearing her eyes away from the mirror. Rilla knew very well how much she hated that particular _nickname_. “Can we go, please?”

            Hawke – marvelous, sweet, wonderful Hawke – had ordered a carriage to take them to Viscount’s Keep. It brought them straight to the door, where the collective gasp that rocked through the crowd as all four women stepped out onto the marble stairs made Avery’s stomach drop down to her toes. It was her imagination that they were all looking at her. It had to be. They were looking at gorgeous, voluptuous Isabela. Or elegant, poised Hawke. Or sweet, doe-eyed Merrill. Or confident, deadly sexy Idrilla. If they even noticed her, they were only wondering why Lowtown trash had been allowed to show herself at such an event.

            “Ave!” Hawke was whispering so loud it could barely be called a whisper. “Avery. Time to go inside.” She was holding out her hand for Avery to take, smiling as reassuringly as possible. “Come on.”

            The whole of Viscount’s Keep was twinkling in the light of a million candles and fireplaces. Avery was so transfixed by the glimmering flames that she didn’t notice Hawke giving their names to the herald at the railing, only snapping back into reality when he called, “Miss Avery Shane of Starkhaven”, and the crowd stilled. Apparently, no one knew that anyone else from Starkhaven would be attending the ball, because the whispers started as soon as she descended the stairs. Avery had to swallow her instincts (which were telling her to run for the hills) and force herself to follow her friends to the side of the dance floor, where the others were waiting for them.

            Anders had declined the invitation under the excuse that he would likely be arrested if he showed his face, but Aveline and Donnic were wearing their dress uniforms from the guard, and someone (probably Idrilla) had forced Fenris into a suit of tails fashioned out of black leather and velvet that rivaled the best of any noble in attendance, and Varric was strutting around in a brand new surcoat with a half-drunk glass of wine.

            “No sign of Choir Boy?” Hawke asked, settling herself in the chair that Varric offered her.

            “He’ll be fashionably late,” Varric continued to drink his wine, smiling at all of them like he was some kind of master of ceremonies. “You look lovely, ladies.”

            “Oo, do you think so?” Merrill clapped her hands happily. “Everyone looks so pleased. Do you think they’re pleased?” She was sweeping her eyes across the railing on the other side of the room.

            “Pleased with themselves,” Fenris grumbled. “Why are we here?” He wrinkled his nose a little. “We are not nobility.”

            “We’re here for Sebastian,” Avery snapped, a little more harshly than she meant to. “This is…well, it’s life-changing for him. And we’re his friends, and we should support him.”

            Idrilla was about to tease her for being so quick to defend him, when the herald (much more loudly than necessary) announced: “His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven”.

            If the crowd had stilled when Avery was announced, they were silent as the grave now. He stood at the top of the stairs in the most formal, traditional outfit he could have possibly chosen: from the trim velvet doublet and woolen evening jacket down to the black and red tartan kilt, down to the Oxford Ghillies brogues shoes that had must have had stashed in his cell at the Chantry because you couldn’t get them anywhere but home. He was saying something to the Viscount now, as they shook hands at the top of the stairs, and in a flash it was all over and the band was striking up an elegant foxtrot.

            “A drink,” Avery murmured to whoever was next to her. “I need a drink. Or maybe three.” A glass of champagne appeared in her hand a minute later, and Avery vaguely nodded to Fenris in thanks.

            “Breathe, sweet thing.” Isabela’s voice was in her other ear.

            When the dancing started, Avery gladly retreated to the upper gallery with Merrill and Isabela, letting Varric sweep Hawke off to the dance floor and leaving Idrila and Fenris to make the nobles uncomfortable. Aveline and Donnic had strode off to the vestibule, presumably checking the Keep’s security.

            “Spent a decade in the Chantry, they say,” the women to Merrill’s right were giggling over their wine. “Chaste as a spring morning, they say.”

            “That won’t last long,” said the second, practically licking her lips as she peered down at Sebastian’s receiving line. “He’s delectable.”

            “Supposedly, he had quite the scandalous youth.” A third woman confided.

            “Better and better,” laughed the second.

            The blood in Avery’s ears was suddenly pounding. They were talking about a _prince_ like he was a piece of meat. Never mind that they were only telling the truth. Never mind that they were less than likely to be the first to have repeated such thoughts. The matter remained: royalty deserved _respect_ , not salivation by dim-witted noble ladies. Avery bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying so.

            “Ave?” Isabela’s voice lowered purposefully – not even Merrill could hear her. “You okay, sweet thing?”

            “Fine.” Avery forced a smile, suddenly having a much better idea that scolding rich, in-bred women. “Shall we go down and say hello?” The sentence was chosen specifically to accentuate her brogue, and the gossips looked up automatically, unable to conceal their surprise. “I’m sure His Highness will be glad to see friends,” she purred, leading Merrill away by the elbow and smiling pointedly at the women. Isabela followed gleefully, nearly kicking up her heels as they headed towards the stairs.

            The receiving line to meet His Highness was unendingly long. A quick sweep of guests showed that their other friends hadn’t bothered to queue up, and Avery couldn’t blame them. Even Isabela (who had been intent on purring at Sebastian at every possible turn) trotted off in search of Varric and Hawke to amuse herself. At this rate, they would still be in line when dinner was served. But she underestimated Sebastian’s ability to politely push conversation along, and they were queued up for less than half an hour (a remarkable feat, really) before Merrill was giggling happily with Sebastian’s hands clasped around hers.

            “Avery’s nervous,” she confided, but not quietly. “She thinks she’s not dressed well enough. But I told her that was silly, of course. She looks marvelous. Doesn’t she look marvelous?”

            “I’m sure she…”

            But whatever Sebastian was sure of, it died on his lips when Avery turned around to face him. She’d forced herself to turn away, chatting amiably with the elderly couple behind her so she didn’t gawk noticeably at her old beau.

            “Your Highness,” she tried not to smirk, addressing him by the title that she so often used to tease him. Curtsying made the skirt of her dress pool around her, creating a strange cream-coloured halo when she was viewed from above.

            And, at half a foot taller than her, Sebastian was certainly viewing her from above.

            “ _Maker’s breath…_ ” he murmured, hoping no one heard. Mentally congratulating himself for his excellent taste in women’s dresses, he took her gloved hand cautiously in his own and bowed over it – much lower than was probably appropriate. “Miss Shane,” he tried not to grin too widely. “You really must listen to your friend. You look stunning.”

            “Your Highness is too kind.” Avery was acutely aware of her manners with so many strangers nearby. She wanted to smack his arm and remind him that _he_ was the one who picked out her clothes, but all she could properly do in this setting was thank him and move on. Maybe smile flirtatiously, if she was feeling up to it. But nothing more.

            She started to take her hand out of his when he grasped it more tightly. “Will you do me the honour of saving me a dance?” He asked, leaning down to whisper the question in her ear, but keeping the question formal enough to not be scandalous if he was overheard.

            For a moment, just a moment, his breath on her neck almost cracked through her carefully constructed wall of manners. She only let her eyes flutter shut for a second before whispering back: “All of them.”

            Protocols had to be followed. And there were a _lot_ of protocols. The receiving line was ended after its allotted hour, and the orchestra struck up a lively reel. The crowd was anxious to see the prince dance, and Avery happily hid herself behind a group of sighing noble ladies so he wouldn’t spot her and pull her onto the floor. There was no way she would survive a reel in this dress.

            But lady after lady was presented to Sebastian by the Viscount as a dance partner, and he politely took them each in hand with a small royal smile plastered on his handsome face. While he found the steps easily, his eyes never stayed still for long. She could see him – from her hidden corner – searching the room for familiar faces. Aveline and Donnic were chatting politely with Seneschal Bran, just out of his sight. Idrilla and Fenris had disappeared somewhere (and frankly, Avery was fine with not knowing where or what they were doing), and Varric and Hawke were halfway across the dance floor, in step with the elderly couple who had been in the receiving line behind Avery. Merrill and Isabela were Maker knows where, but no one had gone shrieking about blood magic or pirates yet, so presumably they were keeping out of trouble.

            It felt like hours that he searched the room, eyes combing every face until they finally ferreted her out when she flagged down a waiter for another glass of champagne. Was that four now? Or five? She should probably stop soon, but she was nervous as the Void. When his eyes finally found hers, she flushed a deeper red than her lipstick. Even from across the room, she could feel him raking over every inch of her. The lady he was dancing with was prattling on about something, entirely unaware that his attention was elsewhere, and when the song ended she giggled happily as he politely bowed and stepped off the dance floor.

            In a flash, he was next to her, hiding behind a pillar with her to avoid being found. “I forgot what this is like,” he confided, letting his head hang a little from his shoulders. “All the eyes on me? All the expectations.”

            “You’re doing brilliantly,” she promised. “The Kirkwall elite are perfectly charmed.”

            “Oh?” He had to laugh at that. “Well, that’s something, I suppose.”

            Avery smirked and finished her glass (five now, she had remembered). “I even heard a few ladies gossiping about your unsavory past.”

            “Oh, Maker,” Sebastian shook his head. “Of course they were.”

            “Of course they were,” she agreed. “It only makes you more attractive to them. You know that, don’t you?”

            “I don’t want to be attractive to them; I want to take back our home.” He leaned against the pole in a most un-princely manner. “I couldn’t care less if the ladies of Kirkwall fancy me or not.”

            “Well, they do.” She was looking up at him, trying not to stare. Someone had highlighted his eyes with a thin half-line of kohl under his eyelashes, and it only served to make them impossibly more blue. “And you _should_ care. Starkhaven will expect a princess and an heir.”

            He snorted at that and shook his head again. “If – when…” he stammered over the thought. “The princess of Starkhaven will not be an idle noble of Kirkwall,” he said finally.

            “Oh?” She was trying to tease, but her traitorous heart skipped a fluttering beat.

            “Oh, indeed,” he straightened himself and gave her a genuine smile. “Miss Shane, I believe you owe me a dance.”

            His hand was out to her, the other tucked neatly behind him like a proper gentleman. This – though they knew the protocols and the manners – was a situation they had _never_ been in together. She hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the palace, and he adored the informality of the taverns and inns too much to have ever requested her hand for a dance, or bowed to her with anything but a teasing smirk. Earlier? That was easy. She could handle a simple introduction in a receiving line. But this? Well…dancing was different. More intimate. More dangerous. At least for her.

            Avery’s mouth ran dry when she hesitantly put her small hand in his, letting him wrap her arm politely around his forearm as he led her to the dance floor. The orchestra was leading into the next dance, and Sebastian let out a deep, relieved breath. “A waltz,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Is a waltz alright?”

            “It’s fine,” she assured him, secretly hoping she could remember all the steps.

            “Just follow my lead,” he smiled a little when he saw her mind spinning, and he led her down onto the dance floor.

            His hand found her back quickly, holding on to her firmly – a promise of stability. _I will not let you falter. I will not let you fall._ And that, in and of itself, was more reassuring than anything else. Nowhere in the world was more comfortable than Sebastian’s arms. Nowhere safer, nowhere more secure. And, right at this moment (as he smiled down at her, eyes unapologetically wide in adoration), nowhere more likely to start rumours. A gaggle of nearby ladies was nearly squawking, trying to figure out who she was. A trio of gentlemen referred to her as “some wench from Starkhaven”, in flippant tones. Someone standing near the corner of the floor suggested she might be an actress, or something equally disreputable.

            “Of all the _improper_ …” Sebastian was muttered through gritted teeth.

            “They’re not wrong,” Avery shrugged. “Well, except the bit about being an actress. Although I wouldn’t mind trying my hand.”

            “You are a lady, and you should be treated as such,” he insisted, pulling her through a turn.

            “I’m not, Bastian, and you know it.” She shook her head a little, gently grasping his shoulder a little tighter. “I’m common, and you’re royal, and that’s the end of it. Don’t let a little gossip ruin your night.”

            He pursed his lips at her. “It’s as much your night as mine. Starkhaven’s your home, too.”

            His hand splayed across her back burned like fire. A dance could be as intimate as sex if the couple let it, and the way he cradled her against him brought back a flood of unbidden memories. “Bastian…” she murmured, shaking her head. “Tonight is about you. Don’t deflect.” _And stop being so impossibly sincere about everything. It’s just as distracting as the little circle your thumb is rubbing half-way down my spine._

            The music was swelling, and they fell silent as Sebastian led them through a series of increasingly difficult turns. A passing couple murmured something that sounded salacious, tittering to themselves as they swept by.

            “All eyes are on you,” Avery reminded him, when his hand slipped a little further down her back to hold her closer. “Propriety.”

            “Not a single one of these people cares about propriety,” he grumbled, leaving his hand where it was. “They’re content to feed on gossip like a bunch of school children.”

            “And we wouldn’t want to give them anything more to talk about, would we?” She meant it. Really she did. The last thing he needed was a scandal – not on the night of his first official alliance being announced.

            “I almost don’t care.” He was holding her like a lifeline, as close to his body as he could manage while still keeping their steps. She was the only one who was real. His anchor. “They’re just making things up at this point, aren’t they?” He looked to her for confirmation.

            “Most likely,” she admitted. “But baseless speculation is the primary sport of nobles. You know that.”

            Sebastian looked down at her – soft auburn hair swept back off her neck, a slash of deep red lipstick across her pale, freckled skin. Lace and silk draped almost effortlessly down her already lithe figure. _Maker_ but she was gorgeous.

            And then he couldn’t wait any longer.

            In the middle of the dance floor, with a hundred of Kirkwall’s wealthiest gossips close at hand, he cupped both of her cheeks in his warm, gloved hands, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

            The entire ballroom gasped. Avery included.

            “Bastian!” She whispered – mouth carefully set in a polite smile – when he pulled away slightly. “What are you doing?”

            “Was I not clear?” He smirked, pulling her ever closer. “I was kissing you.” To illustrate his point, he ducked down to her again, letting one hand cradle the back of her neck when their lips met.

            Something inside Avery snapped, and her hands went flying to the lapels of his jacket as she leaned up on her tiptoes to be as near to him as possible. Fourteen _years_ since he’d kissed her last. _Fourteen_! But Maker…he was far from rusty…

            “You’re going to have to answer for that,” she murmured, almost breathless. “Princes can’t just go around kissing commoners, you know.”

            “Oh?” He laughed a little, watching her eyes flutter open a full beat after she’d spoken. “We can’t?”

            “No,” she couldn’t help but smile at him. “At least, you’re not supposed to.”

            He looked down at her with a softness that belayed any apprehension she might have had – holding her hands to his chest and blissfully unaware of the fact that his lips were now slightly stained with her makeup. “What about if the prince happens to be very much in love with the commoner?”

            Avery could feel the bubble that was welling up inside her well before he said the words. It was inflating her one limb at a time, threatening to take her over and float away with her. It was sticking her heart in her throat, beating her blood in her ears. It was pushing against her eyes, threatening tears. It was flooding her with a thousand long-repressed feelings that she had forgotten the words for.

            “Excuse me.”

            If she could have run in that dress, she would have. She would have run right out of the Keep and through the streets of Hightown, crying and cursing all the way. As it was, she didn’t make it past the edge of the ballroom when Hawke and Idrilla caught her.

            “No.” Hawke said only one word, but she meant it.

            “You’re not running,” Idrilla told her flatly. “We’re not letting you.”

            “Let me go,” she groaned, pushing at their arms. “Please, Maker _please_ , just let me go.”

            “Even if you get past us, Donnic and Aveline are stationed at the doors.” Idrilla held her right wrist and elbow tightly, but without hurting her.

            “You’re horrible friends,” she hissed. She was sure her cheeks were burning, and she was equally sure that Sebastian was probably most of the way across the ballroom by now.

            “Talk to him.” Hawke was looking her right in the eyes, holding fast to her other wrist and elbow. “He deserves that, at least. Doesn’t he?”

            “Avery?” Sebastian was right behind her. The bastard had such long legs that he’d probably only needed four or five strides to get to her. “I’m sorry. I – I shouldn’t have…Ave, please look at me?” When she turned to face him, they were both on the verge of tears. “I thought you’d be happy,” he confessed, wringing his hands together. “I thought…well, I feel like a fool about it now…but I thought you wanted… _us_. But forgive me. I was mistaken.”

            “Andraste’s holy pyre, Bastian, you weren’t _wrong_.” She shook Idrilla and Hawke off. “You just…well, did you have to do that _here_? In front of everyone?”

            “I was trying to be romantic.”

            That startled a laugh out of her. “You could have been romantic in private, you know.”

            “Well, too late for that now,” he admitted.

            “Psst.” Hawke nudged them both ever so slightly. “Everyone’s staring, you two. Might want to kiss and make up before Kirkwall’s female population decides to rush the stairwell.”

            “A kiss might be what _causes_ them to rush it,” Avery joked, a bit half-heartedly. “Come on, you blighted idiot,” she took Sebastian’s hand with a fond squeeze. “We can talk about how to clean up this mess later on. For now, we might as well dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super super knowledgeable about dress designs or formal kilts, but I did the best I could. If anyone spots a place where I got a detail or descriptor wrong, please let me know and I'll fix it. Thanks, lovelies! <3


	8. Kiss on the chest - Sebastian/Avery

            Sun was streaming through the windows, warming the blankets and making her squirm under the threat of a new day. It took her a moment to remember why she was naked, but the hand on her hip brought back flashes of low groans and long kisses.

            Avery rolled over as gently as she could, hoping just to have a few moments before he woke up that she could look at him without being interrupted. In sleep, he looked almost the same as he always had: soft and slightly vulnerable, and very much a _sweet_ man. A little part of her felt guilty for the urge to wake him, but she couldn’t resist. They’d only ever woken together a handful of times in their lives and she wanted to enjoy it in every way.

            She snuggled in closer to him, letting his hand slip to her back and tucking her head under his chin. “Bastian…” she whispered, trailing feather-light kisses down his chest. “Bastian, wake up.”

            “Mmm?” He groaned a little at the sunshine, eyes cracked half opened.

            “Wake up,” she murmured again.

            In much the same way she had, he remembered the night before in little flashes and starts, winding his arm around her waist to draw her even closer into him. “Mornin’, love,” he crooned, peppering her hair with kisses.

            “Good morning,” she dragged him down into a deep, long kiss. Good morning, indeed.


	9. Meet Me - Krem/Emeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Em and Krem to little pieces, and hopefully will be writing more of them soon!

            The sparring ring outside the gates of Haven was currently occupied, but the Chargers were waiting patiently on the side for their turn. The Commander was putting the new girl through her paces with the carefully measured hits of a seasoned officer.

            “You don’t have to go easy on me, Commander,” she grunted, bashing her shield into his sword arm to block an oncoming blow. “Just because I’m a girl.”

            “I would never.” Cullen wheeled around, kicking swiftly to take her knees out, but she deftly dove over his leg, rolling across the pen and propelling herself up onto her feet again.

            “Chief?” Krem nudged the Iron Bull’s side. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and was starting to feel a little coil of something long-forgotten pull at the pit of his stomach.

            “Ferelden officer. Showed up with the compliment of soldiers yesterday. Highever honour guard, if I heard right.”

            Of course he heard right. The Chief heard everything right.

             “Cullen!” Bull called, over the clangs and grunts. “Krem wants a go next!”

            “Thanks, Chief…” Krem mumbled under his breath, elbowing Bull in the side of his stomach, as hard as he could manage while still being a little discreet.

            “Be my guest.” Cullen saluted the soldier and reached to shake her hand. “Glad to have you with us, Captain.”

            "Thank you, sir, glad to be here." She saluted back. With a satisfied little groan, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and rolled her shoulders under her armour. “All right,” she called, “who’s up?”

            Krem stepped forward, shield in hand. The Captain stepped up to salute him, and they hesitated for just a split second when their eyes met. Allowing a healthy smirk to curl up on her lips, the Captain drew her sword.


	10. Join Me - Krem/Emeline

“Do you drink anything but wine?” Emeline perched herself on a stool near the Chargers, rolling a big mug between her hands.  
  
“Tevinter habits die hard.” Bull’s lieutenant admitted. “You’d be hard pressed to find anything else in the barracks when I was enlisted.”  
  
“I’ve never been a big fan of ale,” she sipped at her own drink. “I guess I dodged that particular Ferelden stereotype.”  
  
“So what’s that, then?” Krem nodded at her mug.  
  
“Mead,” she held it out in offering.  
  
“I wouldn’t have figured you for a sweet tooth.” He laughed, putting a hand up to politely refuse the drink.  
  
“I’m afraid sweet things are my weakness,” she tried and failed to hide a grin, flicking her eyes away from the man across from her.  
  
“I – uh – ” Krem cleared his throat and battled the nervous winging that had been building in his stomach. “I was going to get some air. Join me?”  
  
She tried to shrug nonchalantly, but had a feeling she had failed spectacularly. “Sure.”  
  
They didn’t go far – just around the courtyard and back again – but by the time they perched themselves back in Krem’s corner of the Rest, they had stopped pretending they didn’t want to be side by side.


	11. Peppermint - Krem/Emeline

“No, you guys didn’t have to do this!”

But they had, and the Herald’s rest was covered in coloured paper streamers and Dorian’s signature enchanted stars. Emeline didn’t like to make a big deal out of her Naming Day. Growing up it had meant going out into the woods around the castle for a long ride, eventually ending up over a pot of stew and strawberry cake, drinking honey mead with her father long after her mother had gone to sleep. Since her mother had died, it had been a quiet occasion - such that she barely even remembered that it was coming up until she had walked into the Rest. This, of course, was the very opposite of silent. And Varric seemed to have remembered the bit about the cake, because an enormous strawberry cake was situated on a table in the corner.

The party lasted late into the night, and Emeline was well into her cups (Dorian had found some spectacular Rivaini mead that tasted like sunshine and daisy petals), when Krem managed to pull her outside into the cool night air.

“I got you something.” He held out a little box shyly, as though he were afraid she wouldn’t take it.

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest?” She blushed (but whether it was from Krem’s smile or the alcohol was anybody’s guess) and cracked the lid slightly; releasing the crisp smell of peppermint into the air. “Oh, Krem…” she breathed, opening it all the way to reveal that the box was stuffed full of little hard candies – little circles of red and white stripped peppermint. “How did you know?”

Krem bit his lip and grinned sheepishly. “I wrote to your father.”

“You wrote to my father?” That was definitely the mead talking, right? He didn’t just say that, did he?

“He said they were your favourite…”

“They are,” she assured him, reaching out instinctively to put a hand on his forearm. “You didn’t have to get me anything. This is too much.”

“It’s not. Not really. I mean…you deserve, well…everything…” Krem reached out slowly, telegraphing his intent in case she wanted to pull away. But she didn’t, instead stepping into him so his hand settled on her hip a full second faster than he anticipated, making his breath catch. Taken aback at how immediately she reciprocated his advance, he hesitated ever so slightly. He didn’t want to take advantage of her after how much they had been drinking, but she seemed perfectly in control of herself and perfectly clear headed.

She was only a little shorter than him, but just enough that he could lift his other hand to the back of her neck to tilt her mouth up to his.

His kiss was gentler than she expected, but no less purposeful. He held her in close, sliding his other hand from her hip all the way around her waist. The mix of alcohol and body heat drew a little groan from the back of her throat, and he drew her even closer. They were very rarely ever out of armour together, and she couldn’t recall ever noticing just how strong and toned his body truly was.

“So, I’m hoping that particular present came from you, and not as another suggestion from my father?” She joked when they finally came apart for air.

“No…I mean, of course…I…” Krem was genuinely flustered, starting to wave one hand around, as though he were trying to snatch words out of thin air.

“Calm down,” she teased, easing her fingers up around his shoulders until one hand found the back of his neck. “I was joking.”

“Right,” he nodded, still a little hazy from the kiss and the slightly odd teasing. But that was what he liked about her, really – that she was a little out of the ordinary and didn’t mind that he was, too.

“You know what?” She stroked two fingers up the back of his neck into his hair, and back down again. “Just forget I said anything. I’m going to kiss you again, if that’s okay with you.”  
“Fine by me,” Krem grinned a little, letting her tug him down by his hair to drag their mouths together.

 


	12. I Almost Lost You - Krem/Emeline

            The moment between the Inquisitor ordering Bull to pull the Chargers out of the fight and him actually giving the order seemed like an eternity. Inquisitor Trevelyan had allowed Emeline to come to the Storm Coast because of her growing friendship with Bull’s lieutenant, not realizing the danger that the Chargers would end up in. For more than just a moment, Bull had actually entertained the idea of sacrificing the Chargers because of the Void taken _Qun_ , of all the idiotic fucking reasons to abandon you men – _your friends_ – this took the cake. Bull hadn’t lived under the Qun in years, despite his protests, and everyone knew it.

            The Inquisitor gave Emeline a curt nod, and she flew down the hill. There were only a few Venatori left on the beach, but Maker take her if she wasn’t going to run them through her damned self.

            When all was said and done, Emeline and the Chargers slipped down the hill to their mounts without further incident. Emeline was furiously strapping pack and shield to her Courser, gritting her teeth the second the Inquisitor and the others came into view. “Captain Cross!” She was by no means a small woman, but Constance Trevelyan had a voice that could shake a mountain when she needed it to.

            “Your Worship!” Emeline called back, immediately moving to her side.

            Trevelyan – Constance, because they truly _were_ friends – beckoned for her to join her on the other side of the hill. “Go easy on Bull.” It was an order, not a suggestion. “He just willingly became Tal-Vashoth in order to save his boys. I understand you’re upset with the whole situation, but give him a while to digest the thing before you scream at him.”

            “Inquisitor, I appreciate the…ordeal. I do.” It couldn’t have been easy for Constance, either. She’d be close to the Iron Bull from the beginning, and more so over time. “But I’m going to take my time to be upset about this, too. I promise it won’t interfere with Inquisition business.” _I promise not to scream at Bull in front of anyone_ , was what she meant.

            “The Chargers don’t know,” Constance reminded her. “And it’s up to Bull to explain it, not us.”

            “Yes, Your Worship.”

            It turned out to be an unnecessary warning, because when they go back to the clearing, Krem and Bull were standing together away from the others looking horrifically somber. It took them time before they noticed the two women coming over the hill, but when they did they separated with a nod. Bull and Constance went to saddle up with the rest of the Chargers while Emeline and Krem stood silent, just looking at each other until Krem opened with: “You worry too much.”

            “No,” Emeline crossed her arms. “I think in this case, I worry just enough.” She huffed a little, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face and adjusting her grip on her helmet, which was jammed under her arm. _I almost lost you, you idiot. You were almost gone – almost sacrificed for no fucking reason._

            But Krem only smiled. “I’d have made it out,” he whispered, his head bowed close to hers. “You think I’d let some Venatori bastards keep me from my girl?” He left a light, tingling kiss on her cheek, and walked back to the others.


	13. Hope - Krem/Emeline

             _Don’t think about it_ , Emeline kept reminding herself. She’d already been distracted enough to prick her finger three times while mending her favourite tunic, and the last thing she wanted was to have to get blood out of it. But her head wasn’t on straight…not at all. She’d kept to herself after they’d come back from the Storm Coast. Solas had tried to say something comforting when they’d first gotten back, but it ended up sounding disingenuous. Bull hadn’t spoken to anyone but Krem and Constance – and Emeline and Constance had agreed to give each other space after the whole Qun/Venatori/near sacrifice thing. So Emeline had kept to her room. When she went in search of food she took the long way to the main hall and the long way again to her quarters.

            She had no idea why she was avoiding Krem, but she definitely was. They’d been flirting for ages now – ever since Haven – and that was months ago. They’d been brazen with words but shy with deeds, making relentless sex jokes during Wicked Grace games, but finding their hands shaking under the table any time they touched. To date they had sat close, held hands, cuddled on one particularly cold night, and exchanged exactly two kisses – both on her naming day. And then there was the Storm Coast, when he’d called her his ‘girl’. And with one stupid kiss on the cheek, her knees had buckled and her heart had actually _fluttered_. She was no wilting flower. She was a warrior, a seasoned knight with a good commission. But one single thought about that particular set of deep, dark eyes, and she was a blushing schoolgirl.

            _Ugh_. Fourth prick on the finger. And who was knocking?

            “Come in.” She called, dropping her mending in her lap.

            “Em,” Inquisitor Trevelyan slipped through the doorway. “Can I talk to you?”

            “Of course,” she sat up in her chair and motioned for Constance to sit on the bed.

            “I’m leaving for Caer Bronach tomorrow. We’ll be gone about ten days, if all goes well.” She waved a hand when Emeline opened her mouth. “I’m keeping you here,” Constance went on. “This one is going to be me, Varric, and Dorian.” She cleared her throat a little. “And I’m taking Bull, so please…try to talk to Krem while we’re gone, okay? Whatever’s going on with you two, try to talk about it.”

            “Sure.” Emeline bobbed her head. What else could she say to that? The Inquisitor had just ordered her to confess her little crush to his face, sometime in the next ten days. That was that. Decision made.

            “Em, I’m not trying to push you, you know that, right?”

            “Right. I know.” _You’re not?_

            “I just need you at your best, and this thing with Krem has got you pretty…distracted.”

            “Of course.” Another bob of her head.

            “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Constance smiled and walked to the door. “He thinks the sun shines out of your ass, you know.”

            “Pardon?” If Emeline had been drinking anything, she’d have choked right then.

            “Just talk to him.”

             Sometime after midday the next day, Emeline got up the nerve to actually go down through the tavern. Bull was gone, as were most of the Chargers, but Krem was sitting in the corner with a bowl of stew and a thick, square book. The creek of the stairs gave her away, and he glanced over as she hit the bottom step. “There you are. Thought for sure you’d locked yourself away for good.”

            “Just needed some time to think.” She lingered a few feet away. She’d barely thought about what to say, and certainly hadn’t come up with anything good.

            “Funny story,” he turned to face her. “The Inquisitor paid me a visit yesterday.”

            Oh Maker, she was going to _kill_  Constance. “Oh?” Stay cool, Em.

            “She seemed to think you wanted to talk to me. But I told Her Worship that that couldn’t be the case, since you’ve been avoiding me for four days.”

            “I haven’t…” she stammered.

            “Yes, you have.” Krem swung one leg over the bench so he could face her properly. “My fault. I was too forward on the Coast. If you’re not interested anymore, that’s fine.”

            “Who said I’m not interested?” _Way to stay cool, Em._ Her reply came out much too fast.

            Which gave Krem a good laugh. “Will you at least come over here?” He patted the seat next to him. “I don’t want the whole bloody tavern to hear this.”

            _This? What this?_ When she sat, he left his hand where it was, poised on the bench just between them. “This?” She asked, aloud this time.

            “The Chief told me everything that happened on the Coast,” his voice hushed a little. “Everything with Gatt and the dreadnought. And how you almost took his head off with your own two hands when he didn’t pull us out immediately.” He smiled – more of a mild smirk. “Makes a person think, you know?

            “Does it?” She frowned a little. Was he was being coy? This was no time to be coy.

            “Makes a person think, maybe you’re partial to me the way I’m partial to you.” There was a note of hope in his voice, a shyness that overtook the smirk.

            It was the hope that made her blossom. “I should have thought it was obvious by now,” she admitted.

            And Maker, the way he smiled at that. He absolutely glowed – olive skin catching the sunlight through the windows, lips pulled back so far his cheeks threatened to stretch to his hairline. “This is new, ya know?” He edged his hand a little closer to her hip. “The girl I fancy actually fancying me, too…I’ve not…well, I’m not entirely sure where to go now…”

            “Well,” Emeline chuffed a little. “I would suggest kissing me.”

            Now that? That, he could do.


	14. Nurse Me - Krem/Emeline

            “This really wasn’t how I planned on having you see me naked for the first time,” Emeline half-joked in weak protest.

            She had come back from Emprise du Lion half-frozen and (probably) seriously injured, having refused any healing magic so that Sera (who had suffered two broken ribs and a bad sprain in one ankle in a Red Templar attack just before they left the area), could have all of Constance’s attention. She was feeling the brunt of it by the time they had returned to Skyhold, and the Inquisitor had instructed them all to get to their quarters immediately to refresh and rest.

            For Emeline, that meant going through the Rest, and inevitably being spotted by Krem. He was smiling as soon as he saw her in the doorway, but frowned instantly when he saw her try to hide a limp as she made for the stairs. “I don’t get a kiss ‘hello’?” He had teased, intentionally making her pause on the first step. When she faltered and gripped the post next to her, he sprang up out of his chair and carefully slung her arm around his shoulders. “How bad?” he asked. They had seen each other injured often enough to make it obvious that this was no normal bruise or sprain.

            “Hard to tell,” she grumbled. She hated being babied, and hated having him see her like this. He wasn’t supposed to have to see her hurt this badly. She could take care of herself – and he liked that about her. She wasn’t supposed to have to be hoisted up three flights of stairs by him, holding back pathetic little whimpers the whole way up.

            But there they were, one of Dagna’s sensational, self-filling, self-heating bathtubs filling quietly in the corner of her quarters as Krem added a few oils and ointments to the water to soothe her unknown hurts. “How exactly did you picture it, then?” He asked, raising one eyebrow at her from his position on the floor, next to the tub.

            “It was supposed to be more…mutual,” she picked at the buckles on her gauntlets. “And decidedly faster…and hopefully much less tidy…”

            “Thought about it a lot, have you?” He was smirking at her unabashedly.

            “Shut it,” she grumbled. “Like you haven’t?”

            “I admit,” he got up and reached out to help her with her armour. She was in no condition to be doing this by herself. “I’m not exactly unhappy at being the one to take all of this off of you.”

            “I can do it, you know,” she was suddenly feeling very shy about the whole thing. “I got myself in and out of armour for two days on the ride back. Once more won’t kill me.”

            “No, it probably won’t, but you’ve put enough strain on yourself that you’re nursing a limp. And don’t think I didn’t notice the bruising on your fingers.” He leaned in to kiss her lightly – an act of reassurance as much as affection. “Will you let me help you, Captain Obstinate?”

            “Fine.” She was grumbling again, but with a smile. Krem’s quick fingers had her out of her armour in no time, but they both paused again when she was down to her underclothes. “I…uh…I’ll do this part?” She felt a flush heat up her cheeks, but Krem shook his head mildly.

            “You’re not going to hurt yourself by accident. Not on my watch.” He reached for the laces on her tunic, fingers resting on the knot before he added: “Unless you really don’t want me to. I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”

            She eased his fingers into the knot, and helped him pull the loose cotton over her head as best as she could. “I’m afraid my trousers fit a little tighter…those might take more work,” she was still blushing, but a shy little smile danced across her lips.

            “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the challenge,” he smiled back, trying not to stare too much at her chest, but it was genuinely, directly in his face when he knelt down to tug her trousers down her legs. Once removed, they revealed large bruises on both freckled legs, and a gash that looked like it had been stitched up by hand. “Oh, Em…” he inspected the stitches and shook his head. “Did you do this yourself?”

            “Yeah,” she shrugged as best she could and pulled her feet out of her boots so he could deposit them against the wall. “No point in bothering anybody about it if I can do it myself.”

            “I’ll get Stitches to look at it once you’re cleaned up,” he promised. But she was now down to her smalls and breast band, and he didn’t want anyone else seeing her like this. It was silly to feel possessive. After all, they had agreed that their flirtation – that’s the word they had chosen – was casual until proven otherwise. Of course, they had both admitted to not having similar flirtations with anyone else, but that was beside the point. It was casually exchanged innuendos and kisses, and she had started spending more and more time with the Chargers, getting to know them and becoming a staple in their Wicked Grace game. But she was off with the Inquisitor at the drop of a hat and sometimes the Commander would deploy the Chargers on a mission that called for their particular style of comprehensive work. It was silly to think that they were any more than good friends who liked to get drunk and kiss each other breathless, but he couldn’t help but hope that maybe it _could_ be more.

            He helped her over to the tub and she slipped her fingers through the knots on her smalls with practiced ease, letting them drop to the floor, and then she reached to pull the strings on her breast band once she had both feet in the tub. “You can breathe now,” she reminded him, sinking down into the scented water.

            It was heaven, in that tub. She could feel the tingle of elfroot in the water, seeping into her and washing away the little aches. Spindleweed for the bruises and deep mushroom for the cuts, gashes, and scabbed wounds. She hummed her approval as she sank deeper into the water, knees drawn up and poking out over the surface. She was _intimately_ aware of how naked she was, but really, she would much rather that it was Krem here and not Solas or Mother Giselle, or even Stitches. If she had to be undressed and bathed by someone, she’d rather it was by her favourite Charger than anyone else.

            She hissed involuntarily when she reached back to dip her hair into the water, and felt Krem’s hands on her scalp almost instantly. “You’re possibly the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he told her, letting a little water splash down the back of her head, soaking the top of her hair easily. “I told you, you have to let me help.”

            Krem was pondering his nomination for sainthood at the moment, willing his hands to behave themselves as he rubbed soap through her hair and tried valiantly to ignore the subtle hum in the back of her throat as he massaged it into her scalp. He very intentionally put his head down, trying to concentrate on hair, and not the fact that she was now washing her torso and legs. Maker’s breath…this might be his stupidest idea ever.

            The hot water was heaven, and his being there was starting to not be the worst idea in the world, and she apparently was not _too_ injured, because the heat pooling in her belly was getting more and more insistent. “Krem…” she caught his hand and craned her neck to get him to look at her. “I wouldn’t have let you stay if you weren’t allowed to look.” The blush that rose up in him was perfectly adorable, and he bent his head to kiss her.

            When all was said and done he wrapped her up in a long, soft robe and deposited her on her bed, then shut the door quietly behind him as he went to get their dinner and drag Stitches upstairs to look at her leg. Maybe he wasn’t eligible for sainthood anymore, but he had managed to restrain himself.


	15. A Kiss to Shut Someone Up - Krem/Emeline

            “Cremisius!”

            The Chargers were circled up in the sparring ring when Emeline Cross came stampeding across the courtyard.

            “Cremisius Aclassi, I know you’re there!”

            “He’s right here, Cap!” Bull moved a few feet to his left, revealing that his lieutenant had been hiding behind him.

            “Thanks, Chief,” Krem grumbled, shuffling forward. “Em? What’s wrong?”

            “What in the Void is this?” She held up a lengthy piece of parchment and brandished it in his face.

            “It looks like a letter,” he was perfectly matter-of-fact about it until he got close enough to read the signature at the bottom. “A letter. From your father.” He gulped as quietly as he possibly could.

            “Want to tell me why my father is writing me a letter congratulating me on my lovely choice of partner?” Emeline was fuming. If she’d been born with magic, she’d be breathing fire right about now.

            “Uh…” Krem forced a laugh and shrugged his shoulders as animatedly as he possibly could. “Lucky guess?” He paused for effect, but she looked like she was about to run him through. “Because…you told him how absolutely adorable I am and how you would never, ever hurt me?” _Please, please don’t hurt me…_

            “You want to have this conversation here, or do you want to have it somewhere where your friends won’t see you get your ass kicked by a girl?” _Nope. She’s going to hurt me._

            “Kick his ass!” Rocky called.

            “10 silver that she knocks him out on the first punch.” Dalish was smirking.

            “You’re wonderful friends, the lot of you.” Krem groaned, gesturing for Emeline to lead the way.

            “Explain.” She bit out, the second they were around the corner.

            “Em…” he reached for her hand, but she crossed her arms definitively.

            “Explain why you decided to tell my father that you’re in love with me before you even bother to tell _me_.” The anger was starting to give way to frustration, and she was working to stifle the waver in her voice. “Explain _that,_ Krem.”

            “Well…” But he couldn’t. He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d written to Ser Cross weeks ago, asking for his permission to court his daughter. He couldn’t tell her that. Because if he told her that, she’d be furious. Furious, like she was now.

            “Krem.” She shoved the letter into her surcoat pocket and scrubbed at her eyelids with the meat of her palms. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

            _She can’t possibly get angrier than she is right now…right?_ If he was going to be honest with himself, she probably could. But it was better to risk that than have to have two of these conversations. “Because I wrote him a few weeks ago. About my…” _Pick your words carefully, Aclassi_. “About my…intentions.”

            “Intentions?” She peered up at him over her palms. Times like this, she dearly wished she was just a tiny bit taller.

            “Look, it’s there in the letter,” he gestured lamely at her pocket. “I –” _Maker’s breath._ “I told him that I think I’m falling in love with you and that I…” the last part stuck in his throat. But if he could get through it without getting clobbered, it probably meant that she felt the same way. “So I asked him if, you know, he would be okay with me courting you…” And then his head dropped. The toe of his boot dug into the dirt. And he let out an enormous sigh. “As I am.”

            “… _oh_.” One hand dropped down from her forehead to her opened mouth and she suddenly felt completely and entirely ashamed of herself. “You…you told him?”

            “I thought it was only fair.” Krem couldn’t – wouldn’t? – look her in the eyes. Maybe she’d never been serious about him. Maybe she never intended for it to go any further than where they already were. But Andraste’s flaming pyre, he was _damn_ serious about her.

            “You didn’t have to…” she sputtered. “He didn’t need to know…”

            “Look, if you don’t feel the same way—”

            “Don’t be an idiot,” Emeline snapped, crooking one long finger under his chin so he would look at her. “I just didn’t figure he needed to know that you pass. It’s not his business.”

            “He’d find out eventually.” Krem pointed out. “If we’re going to – I don’t know what we’re doing here, but if we’re going to continue it, he’d be told sooner or later.”

            “Why?” She insisted, fighting the urge to lace their fingers together. She was still going to maintain the visage of being mad at him, if only a little.

            “Because…” he groaned, flailing his arms out in an exasperated gesture before crossing them tight against his chest and hissing: “Because if we stay together as long as I want us to, he’s going to start wondering why he doesn’t have grandkids.”

            “OH.” The hand that had been over her mouth returned there, and the other one smacked loudly on top of it.

            “So, yes. I wrote to him. Apparently I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

            “I had no idea.” She was just standing there, staring at him.

            “Of what?”

            “That you were so serious about this.” She was blushing furiously, wringing her hands and feeling like an abominable fool. “I mean – I knew that you liked me and all. That was relatively obvious, of course. I mean, you don’t kiss people that you don’t like. At least I hope you don’t. But you’re not that kind of person, I know that. I know you wouldn’t go around kissing just anyone. And I’ve known I was falling in love with you for ages now, and I—”

            She squeaked a little when his mouth crashed against hers. The abruptness of it had her rocking back on the heels of her boots before he dragged her into his arms and held on tight.

            “Say it again?” He breathed, lips never fully leaving her mouth.

            She smiled against him. “I’m falling in love with you.”

            With both arms clenched tight around her back, he lifted her clean off her feet and spun her around, claiming her lips in another unrelenting kiss. When he set her back down again he leaned his forehead against hers and let out the smallest, breathiest laugh she’d ever heard. “Good,” he said finally. “Because I’m in love with you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upholding the precedent that Krem writes to Emeline's father every once in a while, I felt this was an important moment to touch on. And also a fabulous excuse for Em to be an adorable little cinnamon roll.


	16. The Exalted Plains - Krem/Emeline

**_Cremisus—  
_ ** **_Sorry, sometimes I just like writing out your full name. It makes me feel like you’re not so far away.  
_ ** **_Constance says we’ll be leaving in just a few more days, so it might be another week or so before I’m back at Skyhold. I have a feeling she’ll want to come back out here, though. Yesterday the scouts caught sight of a dragon off to the north. We both know she’ll want to have Bull with her for that one.  
_ ** **_I always think of a thousand and one things to tell you during the day, but by the time I sit down to write them down, they feel insignificant. I’m sure the sunrise looked much the same coming over the parapets of the Keep as it did over the hill of our camp. I’m sure you sparred with the boys this morning, so my own small scrapes with groups of undead aren’t very exciting. I’m sure your days are going on as normal, even without me there. (Speaking of which, is that blonde-haired serving girl getting fresh with you again now that I’m out on a mission? I swear I’m going to have to put my shield in her face to get her to stop.)  
_ ** **_The point of this, as always, is to tell you that I miss you. And that I love you. And Maker, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to finally be able to write that in one of these letters. I’m counting down the days and hours until I can kiss you again.  
_ ** _**All my love,**  
**Emeline.**_


	17. Promise Me - Krem/Emeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bull does exactly what we all expected him to do.

            Peaceful days at Skyhold were few and far between. Today was a day where Emeline could take her time sparring with soldiers from her old unit in Highever, then shut herself up in the library for most of the afternoon with a dusty tome on Divine Theodosia II – because who doesn’t love a Divine who breaks her vow of chastity?

            She was sprawled out in an arm chair, half-dozing with the book in her lap when the messenger found her. She looked to be no more than a girl – rosy cheeked and eager – and nervously saluted Emeline when she sat up in her chair. “Message from the Approach, ser. Just arrived.”

            “Thank you,” Emeline smiled and took the letter readily, trying to hide the broad smile that was pushing at her cheeks. The Chargers were in the Approach.

_Em—  
            Suffice to say, I miss you. The desert is possibly my least favourite place in all of Thedas. Harding was right, this is the worst place ever discovered. I’m sure you remember (or as desperate to forget) how cold the nights are out here, and it’s worse now that I’m used to having you next to me. I won’t get into lurid details, since I’m sure Sister Nightingale reads every message that comes into Skyhold, but know that I’m thinking of you. A lot. All the time, really Things are going (relatively) according to plan, so we should be home in about 10 days.  
            I love you, Em. More every day._

            She read it over and over. She practically had it memorized by the time she made it to her tower, and was already composing her reply when she opened the door and made straight for her writing desk.

            Where the Iron Bull was sitting. Waiting for her.

            “Have a seat, Cap.” He gestured to her bed.

            “Bull?” She stayed right where she was. “What’s – uh – what’s going on?” Maker’s breath, what was he doing in her room?

            “Have a seat,” he said again. “We need to have a chat, you and I.”

            _Oh. That’s why he’s here_.

            “Alright.” She sat down on the edge of her mattress and shucked her surcoat. “Let me have it.”

            “None of that,” he shook his head – horns narrowly missing the tapestry of the Cousland family crest hanging on the wall above her desk. “No yelling, or scolding, or any of that. You’re both adults. And he loves you like crazy, so it’s not up to me.” Bull grunted a little, not lost for words, but deciding what order to put them in. “He’s – well, call it brotherly concern. Or fatherly. Or whatever you want to call it, really. Krem’s family. The closest thing I’ve got to it, at least. And I like you, you know that. I’d call us friends, without hesitation. And I’m glad you’re together. You’re good for him. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this happy. And it was never because of a girl.” Bull shrugged his shoulders. “Just…promise me you won’t let anything happen to him. Can you promise me that?”

            It wasn’t ‘go away’, or ‘you’re not good enough’. It wasn’t ‘I’m watching you’, ‘he deserves better’. It was just ‘be good to him’. And that was not the speech she had been expecting from Bull at all.

            So all she said was, “I promise.”

            And that seemed to be enough for him, because he stood up and put out his hand to her. And after she shook it, he added: “Come down into the Rest later. Varric’s setting up a Wicked Grace game, and apparently Cullen is going to try and win his dignity back.”

            “Sure, Bull.” She smiled.

 

            The letter she sent back out to the Approach was short, and sweet:

**_C:_ **   
**_I finally got my talking-to from Bull. No threats or scolding, though. He just wanted to make sure I really love you. So, even if Leliana is reading our mail, at least we know that Bull isn’t._ ** **_And please, by all means, include lurid details next time. I’m willing to risk someone reading a dirty letter as long as I’m the one reading it in bed._ **   
**_Love, with extra love on top, and a side serving of missing you like crazy: Em_ **


	18. Aggressive Snuggling - Krem/Emeline

            “No,” Krem insisted, lifting his entire torso off the bed in order to drag her back down into his arms.

            “I’m supposed to be leaving for the Graves today. The Inquisitor wants to leave after breakfast.” She pouted against his chest, lamely smacking at his shoulders when he pinned her down to nibble along her collar bone. “And Bull will have both of our heads in you’re late for sparring again today.”

            “To the Void with the Chief,” Krem mumbled against her skin, letting one sword calloused hand slide down her side, past her hips, and down to her thighs.

            “Krem…” she groaned half-heartedly. _Maker_ the things he could do with his hands.

            “No,” he said again, dragging her against him and wrapping her in his arms. True, they were equally matched in terms of strength, but Emeline had very little incentive to get out of bed at this particular moment, and didn’t mind at all that he was pulling the sheets up around them to keep the cold air away.


	19. A Thorough Surprise - Krem/Emeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a follower giveaway prize for Jojorambles on tumblr, but I liked it so much I made it canon.

   She was smirking. Normally he loved when she looked like that. Like she knew she was winning. It didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing – if Emeline Cross was wearing that satisfied little smirk, the person on the receiving end of it was in trouble. The only time he hated it was when he was the one having her eyes narrowed on him while her lips curled back in amusement.  
   “Getting soft on me, Aclassi?” She purred, shifting the weight of her shield gracefully as she watched him pull himself out of the dirt.  
   “Just making sure you’re still paying attention, Cross.” He shook himself off as best he could. They were equally matched, in terms of strength and skill. Both military trained with similar statures and the kind of focused resolve that a lot of warriors searched for their entire careers. Normally a sparring match was a way to blow off steam: a way to deal with the nervous itch that came from too little to do, or from a mission that didn’t go well, or being caught up in a problem they couldn’t solve.  
   Today it was a petty match to decide the winner of an even pettier argument. Rocky and Dalish had let slip (after many, many ales) at Wicked Grace last night that the Chargers – and Dorian and Varric – had a running bet about which one of them would win if they ever had to fight in the field.  
   They’d been appalled at first. The idea of having to go head to head anywhere besides a sparring ring was nothing they’d ever entertained. They’d been on the same side since the day they’d met.  
   But then the question was hanging in the air sitting between them like a sandstorm in the Approach – just teasing them. Who would win?  
   So now they were in the middle of the largest sparring ring the training grounds allowed, in full armour and with their proper weapons, with Stitches standing by…just in case. They’d lost their helmets early in the bout, in favour of being able to get a good damn look at each other when the end of the match finally came.  
   Krem had gone down twice to Emeline’s once, and he was seething. This wasn’t a fight he wanted to loose. Not with the Chargers standing by and coin changing hands. Frankly he’d be honoured to lose a fight to this woman on a normal day. He loved her fiercely – and this was one of the reasons. She was indomitable. A force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and off.  
   But Void take him if he was going to lose this fight because of it.  
   They rounded on each other: his great hammer dancing with the point of her blade like some kind of militaristic foreplay.  
   Foreplay. Now there was a thought.  
   Krem watched Emeline as she circled him again: a hawk surveying her prey. He came at her quickly, a downward strike from well above his head, which she blocked – predictably but stably – with an upward combination of shield and sword to ward off the weight of his hammer. The angle of their combined arms gave him just enough room to slip his head forward and catch her in a thorough, thoroughly surprising kiss.  
   For a moment, a single horrifying moment, she looked like she was going to kill him. Like it was the dirtiest tactic in the world and she was furious about it.  
   She shoved him backward, hammer and all, and tossed her weapons down like she was going to throttle him with her own two hands. But all she did was grab him by the breast plate, back into another kiss.  
   “Truce,” she called, when she got her breath back.  
   “We’ll see you tomorrow,” he added.  
   Bull watched them go, stealing long, very unsubtle kisses and holding each other as tight as their armour would allow, as they disappeared into the Rest and (without question) up to her quarters. He picked up their gear and laughed out loud when Dorian begrudgingly handed Varric a heavy bag of coin.  
   “Called it,” the dwarf pronounced.


	20. Nighttime Kisses - Krem/Emeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from xStephyG

            The Rest was almost empty, which was a feat in and of itself. Bull had gone to bed hours ago, and Maryden had long since packed up her lute. Cabot was left to make lewd jokes with the soldiers who had just gotten off duty, and everyone was doing their best to ignore the couple in the corner.

            The couple in the corner was well past giving a shit. Emeline’s normally tidy tunic was rankled beyond reason; her belt pushed up above her hips to accommodate Krem’s wandering hands. Sometime in the last half hour she had shifted up into his lap, and they were now enthusiastically exploring each other’s mouths and necks. Krem was beginning to be an expert in dragging little groans out of Emeline, and she was never, ever one to object.

            But frankly, this was just getting obscene.

            “Oy!” Cabot threw a towel at the back of Emeline’s head.

            She pulled herself off of Krem’s neck just long enough to scowl at him across the tavern, before rolling her eyes in silent acknowledgement. He was right; they should probably find some privacy.

            She hooked one finger in the collar of Krem’s tunic and dragging him up out of his seat. “Upstairs.” She told him, laying another insistent kiss directly on his lips. “Now.”

            Krem had never run up stairs so fast in his life.

            She was faster than him, having had slightly less to drink and having a solid head start, and the view she gave him when he closed her chamber door behind him was almost certainly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

            She was standing at her night table with her tunic thrown haphazardly across the nearest chair and her belt lost on the ground somewhere beyond it. In just leggings and knee high boots, she was letting her hair down. Pin by pin, the waves of chestnut brown hair fell down almost to her waist, brushing against her freckled skin as they dropped. The dim candlelight flickered across the criss-crossing of scars that patterened her flesh like needlework. And when she finally noticed that he was standing behind her, she tipped her chin back and smiled at him – eyes shining and smile glowing in the dim.

            When Krem caught his breath, he closed the three steps between them and slid his arms gently around her waist, pressing a few chaste kisses to her shoulders. “I love you,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose against the meeting of her neck and shoulders. “You know that, right?”

            He could feel her grinning, even though her head was turned. “I know,” she assured him, turning around in his arms. “I love you, too.”

            It was a moment of perfect calm, and Emeline took a moment to revel in it. His arms tightly around her, his hot breath on her skin, the weight of him pressed up against her.

            And the next thing she knew she was shrieking and giggling as he threw her backward onto her bed, crawling over her to pepper his collarbone with kisses.


	21. Welcome Home - Krem/Emeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen - my first smut.  
> NSFW

            He heard her before he saw her.

            She’d been gone weeks. Weeks upon weeks. Sleeping was impossible without her next to him, and his fingers never relieved his ache the way hers did. He had all but gone mad with missing her, no matter how many letters they had sent back and forth during her travels.

            She was less than six feet away, jumping down from her giant stallion and shaking the wind out of her hair. Maker’s breath…she’d let her hair down. She never let her hair down. Her armour was carefully packed in her saddle bags, having not been needed on the trip up the mountain, and she wore a short blue linen shirt in place of her usual long tunic. Suddenly his heart was beating much, much too fast.

            He’d been bundling hay in the barn as a favour to the Warden, and a large pile of it lay forgotten in the doorway as he walked out into the stables.

            “Em…” he murmured her name and reached out to tug on her hand gently.

            “Krem!” She wheeled around, pitching herself into his arms and sinking her face into the nape of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “ _Maker_ , I missed you.”

            “I missed you, too,” he wound one hand up into her hair to hold her against him. “What’s with the casual look? Going for the warrior princess image?”

            “It’s hot out,” she defended. “Are you going to tease me, or do I get a ki—?”

            Krem caught her lips halfway through the word, licking into her mouth eagerly and nibbling at her bottom lip in earnest before probing deeper into her with his tongue. The hand that was already in her hair pulled her tight against him, and his free arm clutched at her waist. “I missed you,” he reminded her.

            “Clearly,” she smirked against his lips, distinctly pleased with his greeting.

            Without another word, he dragged her around the corner of the barn door, in between the hay bales he had been stacking all afternoon, and trapping her against the wall. “Krem…” she whined, not fighting at all as he trailed biting kisses down her neck and shoulder. “At least let me have a bath before you rip my shirt off.”

            “No,” he answered flatly, nipping at her collar bone. And to punctuate his point he slipped his fingers between her legs, cupping her sex through her leggings.

            Emeline suddenly forgot why she had been protesting, thrusting instinctively against the familiar warmth of his hand. She dragged him into a drugging kiss, letting everything but him slip away. Three weeks was far, far too long to be apart.

            Her skin felt like silk under his lips and she was hot as fire against him. Without even realizing what he was doing he had started tugging at the waist of her leggings, and his free hand floated up to cup one heavy breast.

            “Krem…” she murmured again, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. “I – hng –” she lost her grip on her words, abandoning language in favour of sucking a light bruise over his pulse.

            “Captain Cross?” A voice rang out from the far side of the barn, making Emeline and Krem fly apart with a jump. “Captain?” The voice was coming closer.

            Master Dennet rounded the corner of the barn and smiled amiably. “Ah, Captain. I thought I’d find you nearby.” He nodded at Krem in greeting. “I see the Inquisitor has found a few new mounts on her travels.”

            The dracolisks that they had found abandoned in the Fallow Mire had been brought back and left with a few terrified-looking stable hands. The Inquisitor had been thrilled at finding them – always being a fan of things that looked fiercesome but were actually quite cuddly. (Hence, she reasoned, Constance's attraction to Warden Blackwall.)

            “Yes,” Emeline nodded, desperately willing Dennet to go so she could go back to bruising Krem’s neck.

            “You wouldn’t happen to know what they eat, do you? I’ve never housed one of these creatures before.”

            “Raw meat,” Emeline told him, unable to keep her answers anything but short. She was squeezing her thighs together behind the half-height wall of hay bales, trying not to squirm against the hand that Krem was slipping below the waistband of her leggings. She cleared her throat a little too loudly and forced a smile. “I’m afraid they won’t eat anything else. At least as far as we know.”

            With a wicked glint in his eye, Krem slid his hand over her arse, giving it a good, tight squeeze on his journey lower. One clever finger slithered forward, parting her lips, only to find her already wet and wanting.

            The gasping cry that normally would have accompanied Krem’s fingers inside her was _completely_ unacceptable in this moment. Emeline cleared her throat again, this time in warning, and leaned forward on the hay bales to try to seem casual. Whatever Dennet was saying was falling on deaf ears – her entire body was consumed by the sensation of one of Krem’s long fingers creeping up into her, hitting all of her favourite spots on the way. The only sound she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears, and she desperately hoped that smiling and nodding was sufficient for the conversation.

            Krem, however, was managing full participation in whatever Dennet had to say. He was chatting affably about whatever the horse master’s current concerns were, and apparently reassuring him that everything would work out (if she could read his facial expression correctly, because Maker knew her brain was too scrambled to process anything either of them was saying).

            Emeline swallowed a yelp when Krem plunged a second finger into her, turning it into a sort of strangled hiccup. The horse master tilted his head slightly and stopped his long-winded explanation of his concerns over the dracolisks, “Are you well, Captain?” He asked, voice full of concern.

            “Allergies.” Emeline tried to swat at Krem’s wrist where it stuck out of her leggings, thanking the Maker that they were hidden by the chest-height wall of hay. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll finish my business here as quickly as I can to…alleviate them.” Alleviate her aching clit, more like.

            “Of course.” Dennet nodded, turned on his heel, and went back out to the stables.

            The second the horse master was out of sight, Krem rocked his hand a little deeper into Emeline’s heat and smirked when the scolding on her lips turned into a sharp sigh. “You’re evil,” Emeline hissed.

            “I love you, too,” he smirked, pressing against her gently until she was leaning on the stack of hay bales, elbows tucked into her sides to support her weight.

            “Mmph,” she stifled her own retort when he thrust into her again, grinding down onto his hand to encourage him to go deeper. At this point his hand was probably already covered in her juices, so there was no point in holding back.

            With his second and fourth fingers as deep into his lover as they would go, Krem rubbed quick circles around her clit with his middle finger, pressing open mouthed kisses against her neck and listening with satisfaction to the sound of her hushed pants. He could hear how close she was by the way her breath caught in her throat. Emeline could be quiet as a mouse when she needed to be, but being this close to climax always shook her breath uneasily. If he was judging her correctly, in just a moment she would stop breathing all together.

            Right on cue her breath hitched, catching in her throat as she shook and shuddered in Krem’s arms. He nursed her gently through her orgasm, rocking his fingers in and out and in and out until her breath released and she slumped against the hay. She whimpered when he slid his hand out of her leggings, wiping his fingers on his handkerchief with a grin.

            “Welcome home,” he whispered, kissing her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and suggestions TOTALLY welcome. This is my first attempt at anything sexy, so feedback is especially helpful.


	22. I Got You a Present - Krem/Emeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little NSFW prompt from xStephyG

            “I got you a present” was all the note said. She liked to send little cryptic notes like that – hand it off to a messenger who would never know that they were delivering dirty whispers from one lover to the other. This one, though, was the fulfillment of a promise. She’d just gotten back from Val Royeaux that morning, and apparently had had some time for recreational shopping while she’d helping Dorian with whatever he needed help with. (What was he thinking? Of course Emeline and Dorian had found time to shop).

            He all but ran up the three flights of stairs to her room, knocking insistently until she pulled the door open to let him in. She was fresh out of a bath, wrapped in a dressing gown and smiling. Smiling that bright, brilliant smile that she reserved just for him.

            As soon as the door was closed he was up against, caged between hard wood and the heat of her body. “Hey,” she whispered, nuzzling into his neck. “Missed you.”

            “Missed you, too,” he whispered back, catching her bottom lip between both of his. She hummed in approval, throwing her arms haphazardly around his neck and grinning against his kiss. “I got your note.”

            She hooked one finger into the waist of his trousers and pulled him with her as she stepped backward towards the bed. Faster than he could properly react to, she was pulling him down into a demanding kiss and hooking her legs around his waist, pulling his knees flush with the edge of the bed. “You should unwrap it,” she told him, flashing him an evil little smirk.

            No matter how many times he undressed her, his hands still always shook a little. She had his favourite everything – the softest lips he had ever kissed, the roundest breasts with the most responsive nipples, the creamiest freckled skin, and hips that fit perfectly in his hands. He pulled a little at the ribbon around her waist, pulling it to the side until the satiny fabric fell open.

            Krem’s voice caught in his throat. The ‘oh’ he tried to say sounded more like a choke. She was laced tightly into a black lace corset, sheer but for its boning and a few elaborate flowers in the embroidery. A few inches below the ending of the corset, a little string of black satin held a small triangle of lace – the same pattern as the corset, he noticed – in place over the patch of light brown curls that disappeared between her thighs.

            “Surprise,” she smirked, watching him gape.

            “And it’s not even my naming day,” he teased, sliding her up the mattress so he could crawl between her legs.

            She slid backward towards the pillow, smothering a giggle that bubbled up. She felt silly, on display like this, but she knew he would love it, so she smothered the laugh and tried to plaster the seductive smirk back onto her face. He was prowling towards her, shirt discarded and hair all a mess. He hated being without his binding, even in bed, so she’d come to see it as just another part of his physique – accentuating his already strong shoulders and directing her curious eyes down towards the line of his trousers where his muscled hips disappeared underneath too much leather.

            Despite herself, she kept her knees pinched closed. It wasn’t until one of his hands closed around her thigh that she knew the work had been worth it. He slid his hand smoothly up and down her skin, wondering at the clean movements. “What did you do?” He asked, somewhere in between confusion and pleasure.

            “The Orlesians do this thing with liquid wax…” she explained tentatively, shivering a little as he stroked her soft skin. “It won’t last forever, but apparently having hairless skin is very in fashion.” She blushed. “Dorian thought you might like it.”

            “Remind me to thank Dorian.” He started pressing light kisses up her legs – beginning all the way down at her ankles. The slow build up was pure torture to her, but it was his favourite part. Watching her slowly lose control as she squirmed beneath him was worth every second. He slid his thumbs up the inside of her thighs, slowly inching them apart to make way for kisses, licks, and little bites.

            Emeline worried her bottom lip as he inched closer and closer to her center. It was her habit to stay quiet, but the anticipation was almost too much. She swallowed a moan when he opened her thighs, and grinned unrepentantly when she saw the look on his face. The knickers she’d found at the little shop in Val Royeaux (which had sold everything from massage oils to smooth wooden likeness of every possible size manhood) were a specially made pair that split right down the middle to expose her center even while she wore them.

            Krem stopped for a moment, drinking in the sight of her: spread open for him and already dripping, beautiful center framed by elaborate black lace. “Another Orlesian trend?” He guessed.

            “This one was my idea,” she confessed. Maker, if he didn’t take her soon she was going to explode. She was sure her clit was swollen well beyond normal, she could feel every ounce of blood in her body pooling there, feeling his heavy breath sweeping over her like a wave.

            He lowered his head slowly, keeping both eyes locked on hers, and the intimacy embedded in the act nearly pushed her over the edge. One firm, long lick along the length of her slit did that, instead.

            Hours later, when they were too exhausted to move, they stared happily at the ceiling in each other’s arms.

            “You should go shopping more often,” Krem told her, laying a soft kiss on her hair.


	23. A Favour - Krem/Emeline

            The room was cramped now, with a larger bed, a crib in the corner, and a rocking chair added to the furniture that had been there for a year and a half already. They had managed with a small bed, when they weren’t admitting to themselves that they were living together. The one writing desk had always been enough – the one arm chair comfortable and large enough for them to share if they wanted. But now that they had the baby, they were hard-pressed to go on living in such a small space.

            The rocking chair – a beautiful gift from Rainier after he found out about the baby – took much more space than they had anticipated. That, along with the crib, had forced Emeline to go to Josephine with her (very reluctant) housing request:

            “Josie, I need…well, it’s more than a favour, but I need your help.” Emeline was wringing her hands nervously, standing in front of Lady Montilyet’s desk with her head bowed.

            “Of course, my dear.” Josephine was smiling up at her, hands folded politely on top of her writing pad. “If it is in my power, I will help you with whatever you need.”

            “Well, here’s the thing.” Emeline kept her head down. “My quarters…they’re a little, well, small. You know, for three.”

            Josephine’s smile spread. “How is your little one?” She asked, much more brightly than Emeline had expected.

            “She’s surprisingly quiet, so far,” the warrior admitted. “But, that’s probably Krem’s influence.” She felt herself flush a little. “He’s…very good with her. Wonderful, really.”

            “I expect we should not only find you a larger set of rooms, but also one a bit further away from the tavern. The noise is surely not helping her sleep.”

            “No,” Emeline had to laugh at that. “Not at all.”

            “I would prefer not to house you in the guest wing,” Josephine was shuffling through her desk for something. “There may be a suite on the battlements…” she paused in her search and tapped one finger thoughtfully on the tip of her chin. “I will attempt to find something lower…closer to the ground. Fewer stairs for the little one to fall down.” There was a glittering light in Josephine’s eyes – a twinkling of happiness, perhaps even a little jealousy. Emeline knew full well how much family meant to Josie, and in this moment she was grateful for it.

            “Anything is fine,” she assured the ambassador. “As long as it’s a little larger than what we have now…”

            “Never fear, Captain.” Josephine smiled gently, resuming her search for whatever parchment was needed from her desk. “I’ll find something as quickly as I can.”

            Two days later, Emeline was trying desperately to get baby Lily to go to sleep when a messenger knocked too loudly on the door to her quarters. Immediately scooping the little girl back up in to her arms, she opened the door (prepared to give whoever it was a _very_ bloody nose), but found Josephine on the other side.

            Forgetting herself on the face of a crying child, Josephine reached one slim finger into Lily’s blanket and tickled at her tiny fist lovingly. “Don’t cry, my girl,” she cooed. “Auntie Josie has wonderful news.”

            “You do?” Emeline looked up. The warrior was much paler than usual, nursing deep purple rings under both eyes, and seemed to have taken on a permanently bouncing posture.

            “Yes,” Josephine smiled gently and held out her arms in an offering. “I’m sure you’ve been carrying her long enough, the way she is carrying on. I am happy to try my hand at calming her down, if you would like.”

            Emeline sighed heavily. “You’re beautiful, Josie, you know that?” She gently (gratefully) placed her daughter in the ambassador’s arms. “Now, what is this good news you’re so ready to tell her about?” She couldn’t resist brushing a kiss over Lily’s olive-tinted forehead, and the baby broke her cries a little to coo at her mother.

            “Come with me,” Josephine instructed.

            They went out across the battlements, taking the side stairs down into the courtyard so that Emeline could slip into the Rest to retrieve Krem. True, he was supposed to have an hour to himself to relax (a thing they gave each other each day), but Josephine insisted that this was worth interrupting him for.

            Out across the grounds, Lily immediately relaxed and fell into a deep sleep in her father’s arms, garnering a scowl from Emeline and an adoring smile from the ambassador. “He’s so good with her!” She whispered in Emeline’s ear, and she grunted a vague noise of agreement back. It was now a running joke that the only way to get the baby to sleep was to have Krem lay her down in the crib.

            They eventually found themselves in Skyhold’s garden, passing by the yards and yards of potted medicinal herbs and a dozen or so members of the Inquisition who nodded politely as they passed, and then immediately whispered fiercely once they thought they couldn’t be heard. One sharp look from Josephine in each other their directions shut them up entirely. _No one_ was going to speak ill of her friends, or pass baseless rumours across Skyhold’s grounds. Not on her watch.

            “Josie?” Emeline prompted, when the ambassador came to a halt in front of the large wooden doors on the north wall of the garden.

            Josephine extracted a set of iron keys from one of her many hidden pockets and handed them to Emeline with a flourish. “My dears, I hope you approve,” was all she said.

            Unlocking the door revealed a not insignificantly sized suite of rooms: a small parlour that led into a small room outfitted as a kitchen. Beyond that was a small set of wooden stairs with a sturdy railing, which (they found, cresting the landing) opened on to a large bedroom. A heavy door in the corner of the bedroom opened into a smaller room, where an ornate Orlesian crib, a wide mahogany wardrobe, and a short chest of drawers were set up into a nursery.

            “I hope I have left enough room for all of your things. Of course, I know you already have a crib, but consider this a housewarming gift.” Josephine was beaming.

            “It’s only been two days…” Emeline breathed. “How in Andraste’s holy name did you do all this in two days?”

            “If you think this remarkable, imagine what I could accomplish in three,” Josephine wink mischievously, and bowed just slightly. “I will leave you to investigate the space. I have enlisted a few friends to move your existent belongings into these rooms before nightfall.”

            “Lady Montilyet,” Krem held Lily to his chest and reached out with his free hand to touch Josephine gently on the shoulder. Turning to face him, she saw the distinct sheen of tears in his eyes. “We can never thank you enough for this. It’s…beautiful. Thank you.”

            “It was no trouble,” Josephine assured him. “And Krem? It’s Josephine.”

            “Thank you, Josie,” Emeline had jumped forward to hug the other woman, and all three of them dissolved into quiet, happy tears, careful not to wake the baby with too much noise.

            “I’ll leave you to it,” Josephine said finally, and shut the door behind her.

            They watched her go, and Emeline stayed facing the door just long enough for Krem to lean forward and press a gentle kiss into her hair. “I’m going to go lay her down, and then we can sit down for a while?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just stepped quietly through the open door that led into the nursery and came back a moment later to lean over the balcony that overlooked their new parlour.

            Small windows brought light in at sharp angles, and Josephine had worked to rectify the problem by putting candle holders on every available surface, and filling the sconces with fresh, wide wax candles. The rooms glowed around them, and Emeline leaned in to Krem’s shoulder, slipping under his arm and nuzzling against his neck.

            “Home,” she whispered, looking down across the suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet little Lily's been a daddy's girl since day one.


	24. Garden - Krem/Emeline

            “Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?” Emeline was sitting on the bench just inside the house’s courtyard, clutching a cup of tea and trying futilely to read a book.

            “Nooothing.” The little girl was swinging from side to side, hands clasped behind her back, looking anything but innocent.

            “Lily,” Emeline narrowed her eyes at her daughter and set down her mug. “Tell me what you buried.

            “Nothing, Mama,” she insisted, plastering an angelic smile on her tiny, devious face.

            “Come here.” Emeline beckoned her forward, indicated that Lily should stand between her knees.

            “I didn’t _do_ anything,” Lily insisted, obeying her mother nevertheless.

            “Uh huh.” Emeline nodded incredulously. “And is that why you’re giving me your puppy eyes?”

            “Am not.” The little girl was still clutching her hands behind her back and doing her best to look innocent. She was about to come up with a more elaborate protest when the door to the courtyard swung open. “Papa!” She squealed, jumping forward and throwing her arms around her father’s waist. “Papa, Mama doesn’t believe me. Tell her I _didn’t_ bury anything in the garden!”

            “I don’t know, Lil.” Krem lifted his daughter into his arms and shot Emeline a doubtful grin. “Your Mama’s not usually wrong. You know that.”

            “She’s wrong this time.” Lily pouted animatedly. “I swear it!”

            Emeline shrugged in defeat. “You heard her. I suppose I’m wrong.”

            “Go inside and wash up for dinner, okay, Lil?” He set her back down and nudged her towards the door. She dashed back into the house, giggling all the way. Krem went to sit next to Emeline, snaking one arm around her waist and stealing a sip of her tea. “So what did she bury this time?” He asked.

            “Your favourite belt buckle.” Emeline grinned and kissed him on the cheek, trotting off in the same direction as their daughter, smirking when she heard his groan. She could almost see him shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm squealing with joy over here. More about Lily to come!


End file.
